


please don't take my sunshine away

by Jartiel



Category: Mission: Impossible, Mission: Impossible (Movies)
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Emotionally Constipated Men, Ethan Hunt Is So In Love, Eventual Happy Ending, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mistaken Identity, Misunderstandings, Protective Ethan, Recovery, Spoilers, Threats of Rape (never happens), Violence, William and Luther are Good Bros
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-12
Updated: 2019-01-29
Packaged: 2019-06-26 13:31:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 30,704
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15664176
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jartiel/pseuds/Jartiel
Summary: Post-Mission Impossible: Fallout.To keep his IMF family safe, Ethan thought he knew better than to wear his heart on his sleeve. But when Lane appears to miraculously slip through the White Widow’s hands, he can only be after the one thing left in reach that could possibly destroy Ethan Hunt.Benjamin Dunn.





	1. the other night dear, as I lay sleeping

Safety was never a guarantee. Occupational hazards and all that. 

Fieldwork in the IMF came as a package deal with the ever-present knowledge that some day, you will wake up and you would shoot your last bullet, steal your last file, and break into your last facility. Death was around every corner and waiting in every crevice, more persistent than any foe they were ordered to eliminate on the job.

If anything, Ethan Hunt was a man who knew the rules and the guidelines, and most of all he was familiar with the risks that came with it all. When he was not awake, he was plagued with horrors of the mind, twisted and deformed by everything he had lost, and still had to lose. 

Julia’s smile was something he’d thought to be apt as the last thing he saw before he died. Upon seeing it again in Kashmir, in the arms of another man, Ethan felt like he had been reborn anew. The shackles of guilt and regret that had anchored him to the past disintegrated under the warmth of her laugh. She was happy where she was, and suddenly Ethan knew that things turned out exactly the way he’d wanted them. For her happiness was all he had wished for, and Ethan could breathe the biting northern air like a living man again. 

“How is everyone?” She had pulled him aside after the pleasantries were exchanged. Ethan looked to the distance where Luther and Benji pored over something together, the latter gesticulating wildly about something they couldn’t hear. 

“As well as we can be,” Ethan answered, and it wasn’t a lie. Over the years, there had been too many close shaves, too many incidents that may have been the one. Despite it all however, they were still here. 

“I know that face.” Julia had the same, scolding look that she reserved for him when he was being particularly bull-headed about something. “Don’t you dare go blaming yourself for anything. They all chose this job for the same reason I did.”

“But it’s not fair,” Ethan tried to say, because how can it be? He thinks to the Torus, when Benji hit the ground before his water-addled eyes as the defibrillator clattered to the ground beside them, Ilsa making a mad dash for escape. Morocco, of bullets grazing their scalps, Benji screaming in his ears about the stairs they plummeted down. He thinks of the moment he meets Benji’s eyes, wet and quivering in the glow of the café candles as the vile words of a criminal forcibly leaves his tongue. The red countdown blinking on his chest, rising and falling rapidly as Benji tries to contain his fear.

Benji. From the ever-present voice in his ear whispering him directions, to striding alongside him in covert operations, Ethan had known all along. If there was anybody he couldn’t lose, it was Benji Dunn. 

Something must have shown on his face, because Julia suddenly let out a breath of laughter. Ethan turned to her, slightly hurt. Then he saw not mockery, but sadness in her eyes. 

“Oh Ethan,” she murmured. “When were you planning on telling him?”

Of course she knew. For a moment Ethan felt like the worst man in the world, like he had betrayed his former wife’s trust. “Julia, I loved you. I still do, truly—”

“Oh, hush,” said Julia, and she smiled that lovely smile again. “I know, Ethan. I’ve never doubted you for a second. But your heart was always meant to belong elsewhere, just like I was always meant to belong here.” She made a sweeping gesture around the camp, before returning her hand over Ethan’s breastbone, pressing down on his pulse. “Follow this,” she said, then she raised her finger to his temple. “Not this.”

Ethan looked out to where Benji was now sitting next to a pen of goats with a steaming mug, watching the animals sniff curiously at his hand. 

“I don’t want to lose them,” Ethan whispered. “I can’t lose him.” _And so I cannot possibly tell him,_ went unspoken but heard just as clearly as if he'd shouted it to the mountains.

“You are Ethan Hunt,” Julia replied wisely. “You won’t.”

~~~

And as he lay on the precipice of the cliff, having watched Walker plummet to his death and detonator clutched to his chest, Ethan could not rejoice like the others in his earpiece, voices thick with relief and adrenaline. 

He couldn't hear Benji’s voice among them.

Granted, it was rather difficult to make out individuals from the tinny mess that is their radio. Luther’s deep tenor was crackling with static, and Ilsa’s rapid sentences were hazy. People were coughing and panting, and Ethan’s own breath was rattling to his ears. But still, he couldn't hear Benji, and Ethan needed to ask, but his voice escaped him no matter how hard he tried.

Somewhere far away, a chopper was thundering close. He felt the breeze pick up on his aching face, and he closed his eyes.


	2. I dreamed I held you in my arms

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WOW! I was blown away by the amount of feedback on the first chapter. I swear I never expected more than a couple people to skim this fic, and so it was the most intense, happy surprise ever. Thank you all so, so much for the amazing comments you've left so far. I'm in such a good mood that this chapter has arrived early!

He opened his eyes to white, and the smell of dried blood and antiseptic wafting through his swollen nostrils. There wasn’t a single piece of his body that didn’t ache, but that was never new. He spoke to Julia and Ilsa as if on autopilot, but was never truly able to breathe until he saw Benji standing by the entrance, next to Luther. The man looked rough and sounded like it too, but he still joked and laughed along with everyone else. 

Ethan let his head fall back on the pillow. Benji was alive, and from his distance, looked as if he’d avoided much trouble. From the corner of his eye, he watched Benji kick playfully at Luther’s shins when the man said something rather unorthodox. 

Yes. For now, all was well. 

~~~

With the passing of the Secretary, the IMF agents were placed on indefinite leave until further notice. It was different this time in that there were both figurative and literal chains locked on all agent communication devices. How hard could it be to break into your own government, Luther had jokingly said, but nobody was about to risk severing their ties with the CIA when they were all hanging on to their mercy by threads. 

Ethan’s personal mobile was a sad little thing. When he finally dug it out of a forsaken corner of his boxed belongings, he saw that it was so ancient that the plastic frame shattered at his touch.

Bound to a wheelchair, Ethan spent many frustrating nights shooting email after email to Sloane, but never got past single word responses. Brandt would have complained that he was looking for trouble, and that he was taking care of it. As capable as Brandt was, his pace was snail-slow and Ethan simply could not rest while knowing there were places he needed to be. 

Finally, after relentless phone calls and digital spamming, Ethan received a parcel that contained a small external hard drive. He hooked it up to his computer eagerly, but the screen just flashed an ad for a week-long Alaska cruise. Swallowing the torrent of insults that brewed in his throat, Ethan closed his laptop.

He had half a mind to rip out the IV in his arm, limp to the Director’s office and demand he get reinstated for active duty. Unfortunately, Ethan knew that was exactly what Sloane wanted, and he had no intention of giving more cannon fodder to a woman who knew how to play her cards right. 

Instead, he sat in his temporary condo unit, practically fuming under a purple fleece throw.

~~~

Often during his many sleepless nights, he thought of calling Benji. Julia’s question hung over his conscience as a brittle reminder of what he vowed to keep secret since the very beginning.

Ever since they got back, he had spoken to Benji only once, two days after they arrived in London. 

_“Hullo?” The voice on the other end was scratchy and hoarse._

_“Benji, it’s Ethan.” There was a series of rustling and then Ethan heard Benji clear his throat. “Did I wake you?”_

_“No. Er—yeah, yeah actually,” Benji said quickly. “But s’alright.” There was more rustling._

_“I tried talking to Sloane, but she’s not budging.” Ethan explained the emails and phone calls and how he ended up with the parcel._

_“I don’t reckon it’ll help if she knew you were out of hospital two weeks early,” Benji said dryly. “You’re a complete nutter, you know that?”_

_“I think it’s on my resume, somewhere,” Ethan said lightly._

_Benji laughed, and Ethan’s chest soared a little at the sound. It was short-lived when it got interrupted with a cough, sounding muffled as he presumably turned away from the microphone. “You know I never thought I’d say this, but I actually agree with her. We’ve done enough. It’s time we rest up a bit, don’t you think?”_

_“I agree. You and Luther go to Alaska. Brandt will have all the IDs,” Ethan said seriously. “Like I said, it doesn’t look like there’ll be much of anything for a while.”_

_“Oh yes, Luther and I shall take a lovely stroll to see the northern lights while you sit there rotting away in a wheelchair. Lovely plan.” Benji coughed again before continuing. “For God’s sake, Ethan. Do you ever think before opening that mouth of yours?”_

_“Quite often, actually,” Ethan countered. He shrugged, although Benji couldn’t see it. “I’ve gotta stay in case we get called back. Sloane put us on leave—we’re not disavowed.”_

_“Exactly my point. Which is also exactly why I’m not leaving on any cruise.” Benji barely finished his sentence before a torrent of muffled coughs ripped its way anew across the cheap phone speaker._

_“Benji?” His breathing wheezed like he’d run a marathon. “Benji, are you all right?”_

_“M’fine,” Benji rasped. “Jus’ comin’ down with something. Bloody English weather.”_

_Ethan glanced out to where the downpour hammered viciously at his windowpanes. “Just be careful,” he said, worried._

_“Fine, it’s fine. Anyway, stop talking to me and get some sleep. I’ll bet you haven’t even touched that bed of yours.”_

_Ethan huffed. “Goodnight, Benji.”_

There had been no time to catch up as they were all too bruised and beaten. Ethan was shipped to a London hospital the very same day he woke up with Julia beside him, holding his hand. The last time he saw Benji was in that Kashmir tent, and afterwards he’d been strangely elusive. Or perhaps that was just Ethan’s brain going stir-crazy while stuck in this condo—another reason he needed out. Surely he wasn't getting avoided; unlike himself, what on earth would Benji have to hide from him?

Checking the time, Ethan knew he could make it to Benji’s neighborhood before eight o’clock rolled around. He needed to stretch his legs, anyway. Gingerly, Ethan lowered his weight onto his feet and took a few wobbly steps after carefully removing the IV that had become useless long ago. After ensuring that he was stable enough to maintain balance, he threw on a coat and grabbed his keys. 

It took well over a minute for Benji to answer his door. There was no light that spilled through the tiny peephole and Ethan wondered if he wasn’t home, but then he heard the telltale ‘click-click-click’ of many locks being turned. 

“Hey.” He greeted the small sliver of Benji visible through the crack. 

“Oh,” Benji breathed. “It’s you.”

“The one and only,” Ethan said warmly. Something passed over Benji’s eyes, but a heartbeat later it was gone and he stepped back to let his guest in. 

It was dark in the apartment. The only light came from the streets below through the open window, and it was colder inside than out. Ethan found this to be peculiar, for Benji always loved being toasty warm. He decided not to question it, however, because the man seemed rather on edge about something. Instantly, Ethan began wondering if he should have given a heads up before arriving, after all. He hadn’t thought it’d be a big deal, but Benji had obviously not expected anyone’s company and Ethan felt uncomfortably like he was intruding. 

“A bit chilly, isn’t it?” he asked mildly, trying to lighten the mood. Benji startled, as if he was noticing for the first time how freezing it was. 

“Christ, sorry I—” He scrambled to close the windows and adjust the thermostat. “M’always out, and I—I just got back, I didn’t realize.”

In the dim glow of streetlamps, Ethan could make out the dark coat and scarf swathing Benji’s figure. A maroon beanie was pressed over his head. _Cute,_ his mind supplied unhelpfully. He looked to the table where empty cans of beer lay strewn in a haphazard mess. A thick knit blanket was bunched into the corner of a significantly creased sofa, as if it’d been long occupied. 

“Where were you?” Ethan inquired. “If you don’t mind me asking.”

“Wha—no, ‘course I don’t mind, why would I mind, uh—” Benji shrugged and stalked past him, heading to the fridge. “Just ‘round the corner and sorts, needed some air. You know how it is.”

Ethan didn’t, but he still nodded. Benji offered him a can of beer and he took it, sitting down on the sofa. Benji perched on the ottoman across from him, still not quite meeting his eyes. 

He felt strangely nervous, which was preposterous. He’d jumped out of helicopters and climbed the tallest building with no harness. Ethan Hunt didn’t get nervous. 

And yet, somehow, sat before this man he felt his chest squeeze in ways it never had with anyone else. Not with Ilsa, not even with Julia. 

Never one to beat around the bush, Ethan took a deep breath.

“We never talked,” he said, “after Kashmir. I just…” He gestured in a rather pointless way. “Wanted to know how you were doing.”

“Phone call’s an option, innit?” Benji muttered into his chin. “No, sorry, that was rude. It’s good to see you, Ethan. It really is.” He blew out a breath, rubbing the unkempt scruff on his chin. “It’s just—difficult sometimes, y’know? Going back to normal life after everything that happened.”

“I do know,” Ethan said, sincere. “It takes time to adjust and that’s completely okay.”

“Yeah.” There was a small pause. “But you don’t look like you’re struggling much, Mister ‘I’m-Invincible-In-Every-Way’.”

“That’s not true,” Ethan said quietly. “You know that’s not true. I’m not perfect and neither are you. Neither is Lane.”

At the mentioning of the criminal’s name, Benji’s hand shot up to his scarf. He cleared his throat once, twice, and smiled wanly. “Well. He’s locked up for good now, I hope.”

“He’s been given to the White Widow, so yes. I was there, I saw it myself.” Ethan set down his unopened beer. Breaking into the Torus was nothing compared to how obstinately difficult it was to meet the man’s eyes. “Are you feeling okay?”

If Benji had seemed uneasy before, now he looked downright unsettled. It was as if he was on the verge of jumping out of his seat, and his gaze kept darting to things that didn't exist. In the meager lighting, he also noticed the outline of Benji’s knee bouncing up and down in restless rhythm. 

“Fine. I’m fine. Just a little sore.” 

I don’t believe you, Ethan wanted to say. He opened his mouth.

Benji ducked to cough relentlessly into his elbow. It sounded wet. 

Ethan suddenly felt cold and it had nothing to do with the ambient temperature of the apartment. “You’re sick.” 

“Yes, I’m feeling poorly, I told you last time.” He wiped his mouth with a white handkerchief and waved Ethan away like one would an annoying housefly. 

“That was nearly a week ago.” Ethan stood and closed the distance between them in an instant, pulling out his phone and turning on the flash. “Let me see your eyes.”

“And since when did you earn your paramedic’s license? Last night?” Benji snarked, but let Ethan check his pupil response. “Why’ve you duct-taped your phone?”

“Stop moving,” Ethan ordered. He moved the light to Benji’s left eye.

“If you’re done incinerating my retinas, I’d like some breathing space, thank you.”

“Not yet. Open your mouth, I need to check your tonsils.”

Benji spluttered, “I’m not a child needing to get their bloody tonsils checked— _ouch!”_

Ethan snatched his hands away like he was burned. In his haste to keep Benji from escaping, he’d grabbed the dark coat collar in a mini wrestling match. His fingers had inadvertently yanked on the loose scarf, tightening it. Benji’s yelp of pain surprised him more than the abrupt shove that sent him tumbling to the ground. 

“Jesus Christ on a bicycle,” Benji gasped, frantically ripping his scarf off as he coughed into his arm. “I said I’m fine, you utter—”

“What the hell is that?” Ethan whispered.

“What the hell is _what,”_ Benji snapped, then his face turned to stone upon realizing what he’d uncovered.

Even in the dark, it was too easy to make out the ghastly bruises that were blackening Benji’s neck in a uniform ring. For a moment, Ethan didn’t understand; his mind conjured up some faceless assailant lying in wait as Benji wandered the streets, but these were not fresh enough to have been mere hours ago. 

He thought of Benji’s strange reaction to hearing Lane’s name, of his relentless coughing during their phone call last week, of the way he sounded like he could barely manage a syllable when he spoke to Ethan. 

“It was Lane.” It was not a question, because Ethan already knew the answer. 

“S’nothing,” Benji grumbled, hastily picking up his scarf, but Ethan stopped him.

“It’s not _nothing,_ this doesn’t look like _nothing.”_

“It’s over! You said it yourself that he’s gone for good. It happened and there’s no point in fussing about it.”

“Benji, _what did he do?”_ Ethan demanded, not about to give up now. 

_What did he do this time?_

“Strangled me,” was all Benji offered. “He strangled both me and Ilsa—you saw how she was, too.”

“Her bruises were nothing like this,” Ethan began fiercely.

“It was nothing!” Benji cried again, throwing his hands up. “He was waiting for me. He had Ilsa, and he knew that I would come. I landed a few punches, but he knocked me down. It was a right mess in there and I don’t think I’ve broken that much furniture in my life.”

“You should have… called for Luther,” Ethan said, squinting through a haze as he tried to wrap his head around the fact that this all happened while he was diving helicopters out of the air. “You should have told him to get help, someone outside—”

“Well, mate,” Benji cut in sarcastically, “it’s kind of hard to speak when you’re hanging from the ceiling.”

The air escaped from Ethan’s mouth before he could say anything more. Benji swore and lowered his gaze, tightening his lips. 

Even despite having himself locked away in a vault within the deepest corners of his mind, Ethan had known all along that Benji’s life meant more to him than his own. His actions had always been driven by many factors and one of them was found constant in all of them: that he had to do this, or else the mission would fail, and they would get to Luther, Brandt, Ilsa. _Benji._ He had to succeed, or else he would be killed and Benji would not survive. 

He’d been desperate enough to express it, once. He still remembered the rage in the man’s eyes, voice trembling with fury as he yelled in a way he'd never done before, not to Ethan. And then he'd said that he was never leaving because someone like _Ethan_ thought it was his bloody right to decide what was best for him. He’d been so grateful for Benji’s reckless loyalty, and thus everything had become all the more agonizing. 

But now, images of Benji thrashing helplessly from a noose scourged the forefront of his mind, of his limbs growing weak and limp as he struggled to draw in his last breath, flesh turning blue and lifeless—

“Oh, God.” 

No. Benji was sitting right here in front of him, alive. None of that had happened, for Benji was breathing before his eyes. But there was something a little more subdued in Benji’s eyes, as if Lane’s noose had tied up a small piece of him that he couldn’t reach. He could see that Benji was doing his utmost best to get it back, but the struggle was evident in the mess of beer cans and unkempt living space. 

Ethan suddenly wants to release Lane from his cell, just so that he could pummel him senseless before locking him up all over again.

“It’s over.” Benji’s voice was low and final.

“I’m sorry.” And how desperately Ethan wanted Benji to know that it wasn’t just for Kashmir, but for everything that happened because he wasn’t quick enough, or good enough. There was no building tall enough to match how high his heart reached out to the man slouched in front of him, mouth downturned in a frown that showcased the self-loathing that he was otherwise trying to hide. 

“It’s not your fault.” 

But oh, it was. He did everything he could but still his accursed soul, destined to an endless dance with death, was stretching its blighted influence into Benji’s life.


	3. but when I awoke, dear, I was mistaken

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my goodness, I had to make a mention of all the mind-boggling comments and feedback you've all left me so far! They've cleared my skin, watered my crops, and fueled my energy to keep writing. Thank you all forever!

It was half past two in the morning when his phone rattled on the nightstand. 

Having lain awake all this time, Ethan rolled over immediately to check who it was. The screen blinked an unknown number and he had half a mind to ignore it. The caller was persistent, however, and Ethan wasn’t in much of a mood for discretion right now.

“Hello,” he mumbled, reaching into his pillow stuffing for the Glock in case wall-climbers started shattering his windows. 

_“Heard you’re back.”_ Brandt’s voice echoed annoyingly, like he was speaking from a bathroom. _“What’s the update on Sloane?”_

“Zero.” Ethan released the gun and collapsed back on the pillow. “Where on Earth have you been?”

 _“Washington,”_ Brandt responded. _“CIA didn’t tell you?”_

“The CIA doesn’t tell me anything,” Ethan said wryly. 

_“Before you ask, yes, I tried to tag along on your little trip to the Himalayas, believe it or not—”_

“Kashmir,” Ethan corrected unnecessarily, but Brandt plowed on as if he hadn’t heard a thing.

_“I even made it to the airport, but then boom, instant denial. Guess who signed all my assets void in the box? The Secretary of Defence, Ethan. The entire Pentagon is dangling me by the nose hairs while waiting for any of us to screw up for the last time. Do you know how many times I’ve had to sit in that office, kissing asses of all shapes and sizes? You know, I should just do it professionally at this point. Analyst? Whom?”_

Outside of his condo, a car alarm started blaring. “You know that we couldn’t have done anything without your help—”

 _“Hmm. As Director of Professional Ass-Kissing, my radar is picking up on a positive frequency. Are you, perchance, trying to kiss_ my _ass?”_

Ethan sighed. “Will—"

A gurgling noise that sounded suspiciously like a toilet flushing interrupted through the tinny speaker. _“Is that Ethan?”_ Luther’s voice grew in volume as he approached on the other line. _“Aw, hell. Listen, man, he’s been spewing the same sob story even since I got off the damn plane—”_

 _“Excuse me, am I sobbing right now?”_ Brandt said loudly. _“Have I ever sobbed once?”_

_“—and I keep telling him: he ain’t the one who’s had to diffuse two cold fusion detonators at once—”_

_“Because I’ve got my priorities straight!”_

_“Priorities? Holy hell—”_

“Guys,” Ethan tried.

 _“Oh, I’m sorry!”_ Brandt spluttered. _“I’ve heard fieldwork is all the craze nowadays, but lest we forget the mere mortals behind the scenes, picking up pieces of the IMF, so that you idiots can keep running around chasing nuclear bombs to your hearts’ content!”_

_“Your mission, should you choose to accept it, is to shut the fuck up—”_

_“Declined,”_ Brandt deadpanned. _“And Ethan, I speak from the bottom of my heart when I say that I really want this to work out. Seriously. But a reinstatement does not guarantee a permanent fix and trust me; we are on some damn thin ice right now.”_

Ethan suddenly felt like all his sleep-deprived nights were catching up to him at once. He pinched the bridge of his nose. “Okay, I get it. What do you need me to do?" 

_"How about not trying to come up with increasingly creative ways to get murdered? Just for a little longer, anyway. I'm supposed to meet with, like, five Under Secretaries in the morning and I've got my thesis ready."_ " 

"You're all that we've got. Thank you," Ethan said sincerely. "Can you still get us IDs?”

 _“Uh, I can, but do I_ want _to?”_

“If they prefer us lying low for a while then I’ve got no problems with that.” Ethan did, in fact, have many problems with that. Despite Brandt’s tireless efforts overseas, they’d made little progress on staying afloat and their ship was made of straw. 

He looked around, wondering if this little one-bedroom unit was to become a long-term commitment. “If you get us IDs we’ll keep out of their hair for as long as we can.”

 _“I’ll bring it up.”_ Brandt sounded audibly relieved that he didn’t have to argue it out of him. _“Should I mail yours and Benji’s separately?”_

“No,” Ethan said immediately. “Send them both to me. If there are sniffers, then I don’t want them on both of us.”

_“Should I be offended that you're worrying about potential sniffers on my postcards?”_

“It’s not you, it’s me,” Ethan said lightly, and Brandt chuckled. “You and Luther take it easy, too.”

 _“Easy? I don’t know her.”_ He could hear the grin in Brandt’s voice.

“I’ll see you, Will.”

Ethan ended the call and carefully set the phone back down. The car outside was still shrieking bloody murder but at this point, caring was beyond mission parameters. He smashed the pillow over his head and focused solely on conking out. 

~~~

Twenty minutes later and he was finally teetering on the precipice of wakefulness and dreamland. Naturally, that was when his phone decided to ring again. Ethan smashed the ‘answer’ button with a renewed vengeance. 

“What more does the Director of Kissing Ass have to say?” he groaned into the mattress, annoyed to Hell and beyond that he was being robbed of his first proper sleep in ages. 

_“...errmm...”_

_Shitting Christ._ “Benji! Hey.” Ethan sprang out of bed like he was electrocuted, one hand automatically patting down his unruly hair as if it was visible over a voice call. “Hey. Sorry, that was Will. I mean, Will called. We talked about ass-kissing. No, we didn't actually—God, just forget it.”

There was a stunned stretch of silence on the other end. Ethan breathed deeply, dragging a palm down his burning face. 

_“Sorry,”_ Benji said, although it sounded like he was doing his best not to laugh. _“I woke you up from some much needed rest.”_

“No,” Ethan said quickly before he hung up. “No, it’s all good. I’ve slept enough, I just…”

 _“Never in all these years,”_ Benji said, and he was truly laughing now, _“have I heard you sound as scatterbrained as you did just now. Does this mean I must catch you off guard more often?”_

He couldn’t help but roll his eyes. Apparently having predicted that he’d do so, Benji laughed even harder. Until he heard the hinges creak in protest, Ethan never realized he’d been pressing the phone closer into his ear as if that meant being in closer proximity to his friend’s happiness.

Unfortunately, it didn’t take long before Benji returned to being oddly reserved, and with it Ethan’s own trepidation bloomed. 

_“Honestly, I don’t know why I’ve called. I thought maybe you—but of course, you were sleeping. Why wouldn't you be? Stupid, really.”_ He scoffed at himself. _“’Course, not like I think things through before doing ‘em. That’s why you’re out there saving lives and I’ve sat behind monitors my whole life.”_ He was slightly drunk, as far as anyone could tell. A mental snapshot suddenly appeared, of him in his freezing apartment, curled up on the sofa, picking at loose strings on his blanket in the dark. 

“Don’t be like that,” Ethan said quietly.

_“Be like what?”_

“Speaking so poorly of yourself when not a single bit of it is true.”

_“Hah! I’ll have you know that the test results came in, and I’ve been diagnosed with Type I Verbal Integrity. That means I can’t lie about things.”_

Ethan’s throat tightened. “Benji.”

A soft groan reverberated through the phone static. _“Gods, I rang you at bloody arse o’clock just to gripe about my life; how charming. I’m sorry, Ethan. Go back to bed and forget I said anything.”_

“Wait! Wait, are you home?”

 _“Sure.”_ With no more fronts to uphold, Benji’s weariness bled through the pathetic little speaker. _“Why?”_

“I just…” He held back everything he wanted to say and it felt like swallowing glass. “I just need to see you, right now.”

The pause stretched on into oblivion, in which every passing second Ethan’s heart jumped higher and higher into his throat. 

“All right,” Benji conceded, at last.

~~~

 _He’ll get over it soon,_ a fellow ranger had once commented offhandedly during his RIP days. They were talking about a fellow who’d been crushing hard on Second Lieutenant Simons, whose short stature matched the length of the straw that she picked when it came to temperament. _Sure, he thinks it’s hot and all, but soon everything she does will be annoying and I guarantee you he’ll have forgotten about her in about six months, tops._

After being assigned to the 75th, Ethan never learned how the story ended. Perhaps his feelings had indeed expired within six months’ time, off to search for some woman he had an increment of chance with. 

Now, here stood Ethan before the very man he’d known for over six months, bleeding into many years, with his stomach back-flipping up a storm.

“Well.” Benji smiled uncertainly when they simply stood staring at each other. “Here I am.”

“Yes,” said Ethan. It was a secret long and duly kept, but the forced idling of the past several days had let his thoughts run astray and delve into corners that were hidden for a reason.

His fingers twitched with the need to reach out and simply hold the man’s face, to hide the hideous yellows and blacks that still marred his throat. He thought back to the midst of the airborne mayhem, how he had whooped and cheered himself on through narrow dives and climbs while Lane squeezed the life out of Benji’s body. 

And then back into reality they’d been cast, where boundaries were upheld and fenced out dangerous fantasies. 

The apartment air was stagnantly frigid, but a metal desk lamp sat glowing in the kitchen. Ethan saw a cutting board laid out, covered with half-sliced tomatoes and cheese. A box of salted crackers leaned against the coffee pot.

“I was a terrible host last time,” Benji said, flushing at the memory. “Sorry, it’s the only thing I’ve got.”

“You didn’t have to,” Ethan promised, “but thank you.”

Benji grunted something incoherent and hastily stacked the tomato and cheese, setting it on the dining table that felt dusty with disuse. The tomatoes were mushy and far from fresh. Despite not being hungry, Ethan polished off the entire plate in minutes. 

“So.” They now sat across from each other in tandem silence that Benji clearly found uncomfortable. “You wanted to see me. What for?”

There was no reason for it at all. Ethan looked at Benji’s expectant face, and his gaze travelled further down to the offensive mark just below his chin. How was he to explain the amalgamation of all the things he felt when Benji was around? He was painfully aware of how different their lives compared. Outside of the field, Benji had always been full of life, springing from one activity to another that often the dawns and dusks blurred together when he lost track of time. 

On the other hand, Ethan was a societal black sheep, stuck in limbo while the rest of the world shuffled on. His days were barren and dull, devoid of any rhythm that defined Benji's routines.

“There are so many things I wanted to say to you,” Ethan confessed. 

“Okay?” Benji said. 

“I don’t know how to say it... or if I even can.” 

Benji's face crumpled. “Ethan,” he croaked, his already hunched shoulders sagging even further. “Are we—is this goodbye?”

Shocked, all Ethan could do was gape. “I—what? No, of course not,” he nearly exclaimed. “Why would you think that?”

But Benji wasn't listening, and it was as if the verbal floodgates had been blasted away in a single swoop. “Look, I—I know I’m not a very good field agent; I’m nowhere as skilled as you, or athletic as you—I’m just overall incredibly mediocre which just isn’t gonna cut it for IMF, which is fine, because everyone knows only the best of the best gets chosen and passing the field exam must have been a fluke and I just really should have stayed as your navigation guy over comm—"

Ethan hand stopped Benji’s rambling when it landed on his own folded ones. His fingers were clammy to the touch, clasped together in a deadlock.

“Don’t,” Ethan implored softly.

“I know you're thinking that if I’d been competent I’d never have let Lane get to me twice and I totally get it if that’s why you want me off the team—”

“Benji, stop!” Ethan barked, and he didn’t let go of the trembling hands even when incredulous eyes froze on him in a humorless double-take. “Please," he begged in a gentler tone, "never say those words again.”

"And why the hell not?"

"Because you’re breaking my heart."

"You—" Benji's face changed from red to green faster than a set of traffic lights. "You—I beg your pardon?" 

It wasn’t just for Benji’s extraordinary intellect, or his incredible aptitude with the technical arts. It wasn’t even just for how seamlessly they worked on the field, complementing the other’s skillset with a fluidity that required no further instruction. 

It was also for how Benji always saw him off after a mission, how he called to make sure Ethan was well, worry thick under his prickly tongue. It was also for how Benji memorized his coffee preference and how he would fill Ethan’s cup just a bit more than his own. It was also for the way Benji laughed, how it would brighten his entire face and then Ethan’s heart, how his eyes crinkled when he smiled. It was for the way his own stomach fluttered like a silly boy in high school whenever Benji said his name. 

All of this would be gone the minute Ethan tried to follow what his heart so desperately desired. He had already risked it with Julia. Thus, he wouldn’t dare. Not this time. 

He couldn’t possibly dare.

But there was a whirlpool of self-doubt and disappointment festering and growing ever wide. Ethan could see it reflected in red-rimmed eyes, and nothing pained him more than to watch it consume Benji alive. 

Julia’s phantom touch ghosted over his chest. _Follow this,_ her voice whispered, before her hand brushed across the wretched carnage of his psyche. _Not this._

For once in his life, Ethan Hunt was well and truly stuck, for anything he tried to decipher as right and wrong came out as mere static. His brain shrieked its usual warnings in a futile attempt to protect what was habitual for him to hide. To speak of it and therefore bring it into the wakeful existence of their world was a move too reckless to afford, but he continued to tread blindly with nothing but his selfish gut to rely on. The last binds of resistance vaporized and he was free to whisper, “Benji, listen. I… I really care about you.”

“What?” Benji sniffed. He rubbed at his eyes, looking haggard. 

“I know you already think I’m crazy—”

“Got that right,” he muttered.

“I don’t want you to think this is like that. I just want you to know that I never meant for this to happen to you, ever.” 

This was a safe place to end it. He could cut it off here, letting Benji know that he was always looking out for his friends. Secrets would remain a secret, as they should. He would continue to carry it until some day, he finally fell into a grave that was wide enough, and deep enough to keep him there forever. 

“It’s not a reflection of your capability as a field agent,” he continued instead, “but it's not about that. It was never about that.”

No amount of first-grade IMF equipment could read Benji’s face right now. “Ethan, what…” Their faces were closer than before, his eyes wide and shining in sync with the flicker of the measly little lamp.

“I want… no, I _need_ you to know—” 

“Ethan Hunt.” Through the roar of his own blood, Benji sounded weirdly distant to his ears. “Tell me.”

“I—” _Jesus, what are you doing to him? Do not say love. For the love of God, if what you feel for him is true, do not say love._ “I like you, Benji.”

Everything about this had been unplanned from the beginning and Ethan hadn't the faintest idea what to expect. But what he definitely had not expected to see was the subtle wobble of Benji's chin. He broke eye contact, drawing away from Ethan’s touch. 

His entire chest felt like it had been dipped into ice, like his hand where it no longer rested on Benji’s own.

“I see.”

Just as quickly as it had formed, Ethan’s world was burning. He should never have said anything—he’d been so afraid of losing Benji to the curse but now he’d gone and lost what precious friendship they’d built—

“I...” Benji’s voice was smaller than it had ever been. “I like you, too, Ethan.”

He couldn't have heard correctly. If Ethan hadn’t already been sitting, his legs would have given out under him then.

“You do?” His voice sounded foreign to his own ears; too high pitched, too eager. However, it was the most accurate, audible reflection of how he felt in that moment. “You… really do?” His head was spinning; he didn’t know what he was seeing or doing. A small part of his brain that was the trained special ops agent recognized it along the lines of panic. Ethan chose to see it as delight.

“Of course I do, you git,” Benji grinned, sounding like he was about to cry.

“I… I don’t know what to say.”

“Well, that is a first.” Benji said with a small snort, and Ethan couldn’t help it. He laughed, releasing the tension like a deflated tire. He hit the back of his chair like a ragdoll and laughed again, biting his finger to contain any stupid comments of his own from slipping out.

His chest was buzzing anew—excitement, fear, excitement, fear—that he barely noticed how miserable Benji looked, almost as if his own world was crumbling to build the foundations on which Ethan’s own happiness grew.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Um... I'm sorry?


	4. so I bowed my head and cried

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There was a massive power outage in my neighborhood! I apologize for the slight delay in uploading. I like to stay a tiny bit ahead and so unfortunately I've had to split a single chapter into two, so that I'm not as behind. Thanks for waiting! Once again THE FEEDBACK HOLY I am continued to be blown away at all of your AMAZING comments <3 thank you so much!

A pale grey sky was on the forecast as Ethan stepped out of the cab. Hyde Park was nearly deserted at this time of morning, and Ethan found himself walking alone down the gravel path. 

He sat down on a bench with the fountain visible just ahead between two trees. A woman was standing at the edge, head dipped in prayer as she tossed coins into the water.

Throughout his adulthood, Ethan had never made a wish by a fountain before. It was more than how redundant such an act would be, if not entirely silly for those in his line of work. Once upon a time it’d have been because only foolish people prayed and did not act upon. Miracles were just as fictitious as tragedies, he’d have said. It was human nature to confuse well-timed coincidences as fate and destiny when the only deciding factors of such things were a direct result of the conscious decisions made by oneself. 

Out of curiosity, Ethan thought of what he’d wish upon the penny if he were to throw it into the fountain. World peace was outrageously implausible. A cure for all diseases would only birth newer, deadlier ones. He searched for something well within the boundaries of reality, of something wonderful he could have if he simply opened his eyes and looked to the side.

To his right, someone cleared their throat.

Backlit by the first light of a dawning sun, Benji Dunn looked incredible. The collars of his pea coat were turned so that they hid his neck from easy view, and in each hand was a white paper cup. His breath fogged and mingled with the steam rising from the drinks as he said, “If you fall asleep here you’ll catch more than a cold.”

“Is that so?” Ethan gratefully accepted the coffee and shifted slightly to give the man more space. “And what would they be?”

Benji took a seat and shrugged. “A variety of avian excrement,” he began listing. “Probably some bugs, children’s footballs flying astray, definitely my fist to your face for neglecting your health...”

Ethan snorted into his cup, nearly sloshing the contents over the rim as it had arrived borderline overflowing to begin with. “Sounds like I’d be in quite the predicament.”

“Precisely. There’s a spider crawling up your leg, by the way.”

“Come here, darling,” Ethan said, leaning over to see the adventurous critter inching closer to his knee.

Emitting a noise of disgust, Benji’s nose scrunched up in Ethan’s most favorite way. “Sod off, you lunatic.”

“They’re harmless.” He picked up the tiny arachnid with two fingers and released it on the bin behind him. “I found one of those big ones hiding behind your game box, last night.”

Benji’s jaw dropped in horror. “Okay, first, it’s called a PlayStation. And secondly, don’t you dare tell me that I’ve sat for hours within arm’s reach of a _monster.”_

“You and spiders.” Ethan shook his head and smiled into his cup. “There are plenty of other things to be afraid of in this world.”

“The thing is, Ethan—irrational fears get their names from being _irrational."_

Their coffees were sipped in silence, neither of them in a hurry to be anywhere for the first time in ages. Through his thin sweatshirt, Ethan basked in the warmth from where their arms barely grazed. Somewhere along the journey to buy drinks, Benji had pulled on the adorable maroon beanie that he was growing to love. The tip of Benji's nose and the earlobes peeking out from where they weren’t quite covered had grown pink in the chill. 

Without really thinking about it, Ethan reached out.

“What are you doing?” Benji asked abruptly.

“Fixing your hat,” Ethan explained, and he gently pulled the edge of the beanie so that it properly sheltered Benji’s ear. 

“Don’t touch me with your spider hands,” Benji grumbled under his breath. Deciding to do exactly the opposite, Ethan brushed a finger along the line of his jaw in a not-quite-a-caress tickle. It was quickly slapped away, but Benji's cheeks now matched the color on his nose. Ethan wanted to kiss it.

With that single thought, he drew in a sharp intake of breath when it made him realize just how reckless he was acting. 

True to his fears, he was already growing lax under the high of too many soaring emotions. His own selfish happiness was not worth the consequences it reaped and Ethan felt dizzy from the vertigo of his two most desperate needs colliding in opposition of each other. 

Sharper than any tactical blade, Benji had taken notice of the shift in atmosphere in a heartbeat. His posture stiffened with almost imperceptible subtlety and the warmth trapped between their arms had disappeared.

“Ethan.” Benji’s voice was low, barely audible through the slowly increasing clamor of the city waking up around them. “This isn’t going to work.”

Despite the nearly scalding coffee in his hand, Ethan felt the wintry air bite through every inch of his skin. “What isn’t?”

Benji’s profile was shielding Ethan from the searing rays of true sunlight and it was impossible to look at him without being blinded. “You said, last night. That you l—” He paused rather suddenly, looking chastised as he stared at the ground. “Liked me," he finished as if in quick amendment.

“It’s true,” Ethan said without hesitation. “I meant it.”

“But it’s not going to work,” Benji repeated. The breeze picked up and his coat collar trembled, threatening to leave everything on display. “Even if you really did...” His cup was held tightly against his chest. 

“If I really did what?” Ethan demanded as he turned to face Benji in a slight panic, painful sun in his eyes be damned. 

"Nevermind."

“Benji, you have no idea how much—”

“I’m resigning,” Benji suddenly announced, finality setting his voice in stone. “I think I'm done playing secret agent in the field.”

Ethan could no longer remember how to breathe. “Benji, what—”

“I apologize, Mister Hunt, for the trouble I’ve caused you and the IMF by leaving on such short notice.” 

Ethan felt nauseous. He threw down his half-empty cup of coffee on the gravel to seize Benji by the wrist when it looked like he was making to stand up. 

"What is this? Where is this coming from? Talk to me, Benj." He ignored the conspicuous efforts made to dislodge his grip. "You can't just come up out of nowhere to say that you quit!"

"I can, and I will. We're going to kill each other like this and I'm not having any of it." Benji's eyes reflected some sort of desperation of his own, as if he couldn't wait to rip the band-aid off a wound that wasn't for him to decide when it was healed.

_They spent the rest of the night wide awake, sitting in Benji's sofa crease and simply being in each other's presence. Their knees pressed together whenever they shifted to get comfortable, and Ethan was content to stay like this for a very long time._

_It was nearing dawn when Benji said, "Let's go on a walk."_

_Ethan looked to the windows where the world slept on. "It's still dark out."_

_"We'll take a cab," Benji said. "Come on, I need to get some air. And, I have something I need to tell you."_

"Is this what you wanted to tell me?" Ethan battled the overwhelming urge to scream, cry, do something that he'll regret more than tightening his grip around the wrist _(too bony)_ which had given up its futile struggle. "I don't understand. Why? Why did you bring me all the way out here, just to say..." He couldn't even finish the thought without his throat closing off.

"I needed some air," was the extent of the pathetic excuse Benji had to offer.

There was no point in arguing pedantics as it would bring them nowhere close to the subject he desperately needed to reach. "Don't leave. I need you.” Benji refused to look at him but Ethan refused to let go. “I need you here.”

“I am certain there are many youthful candidates who are more than capable of filling my position—”

“I don’t care about the fucking job!” Ethan shouted, startling them both with such unanticipated intensity and volume. “I—“ One of his hands had somehow wound its way up to cradle the nape of Benji’s neck, never pressing harder than a feather’s touch for he knew of what hurts still lingered there, unseen, “— _I_ need _you.”_

He found Benji’s eyes, which had grown wide and filled with an unmistakable shine that stubbornly refused to fall.

“Please,” he whispered. “Don’t leave me.”

It was evident that all this had been just as impulsive as Ethan's outburst, because all it took was a single plea to break through whatever superficial role Benji had designed. The terrifying, expressionless formality crumbled away instantaneously and Benji’s cold fingers twisted into the lapels of Ethan’s sweatshirt. 

“You stupid, stupid man,” he said softly. “Will it absolutely end you to save yourself before other people?”

“I don’t—”

“You’re _still_ thinking about Julia as if it was your fault.” Ethan closed his eyes, pained. Of course, he knew. How could he have hoped to hide from the man who read him like a book, crossing out and highlighting his intentions as if they were stamped across his chest? “And somehow, you think because you breathe a little in my direction I’ll just drop dead immediately. Do you really have such little faith in me?”

 _No._ “Not even for a second have I ever doubted—"

“Stop it. This is your problem, right here. Breathe, for Christ’s sake.”

It was clear at this point that it was not in his nature to do so. "It should have been me. You would have been home." He traced the mottled pattern over and over again, engraving to memory of what his blunders had wrought. "You would have been safe."

And then Benji was embracing him, encompassing all his senses like a blanket smothering the flames of an entire forest. "I'm safe right where I am," he told the crook of Ethan's shoulder, and the faintest tremor ran through his frame that felt shuddering to Ethan's touch. Forgetting how to speak, Ethan simply clung to him like Benji’s life was dependent on it, breathing in his scent like it was the last ounce of oxygen left on Earth to give him life. 

_I love you,_ Ethan thought in wordless anguish. _I love you, I love you, I love you._


	5. you are my sunshine, my only sunshine

“Um,” said Benji. “Hi.”

“Hi,” Ethan repeated, raising his hand in a small wave. 

Instead of releasing the chain, Benji continued to squint at him through the usual crack in the door. 

“Is everything okay?” Ethan asked. The other tenants of the apartment gave him strange looks as they passed him on the stairs. 

“Fine,” Benji replied, still looking as though he was stuck on a particularly difficult puzzle. 

“May I come in, please?” he asked politely. “I don’t want your neighbors thinking that I’m loitering.”

“Right." The chain was hastily undone. "Of course not."

Upon entering, it was with pleasant surprise that Ethan noticed the mess on the coffee table was gone, as well as a couple more curtains drawn to let in the natural light. The apartment had reverted back into Benji's homely abode within the span of a single night. Corners of books and other knick-knacks could be seen poking out from behind shelves and drawers, but a gargantuan effort to clean was made, and proved fruitful.

“S’what I should’ve done the minute I came back,” he muttered as Ethan looked around. “Feels somewhat habitable, now."

“You've been gone for over a year, it's not your fault.” Ethan turned around to face Benji who remained hovering at the door. “It’s good to see some more windows open."

Benji shrugged, but his lips had twitched into a small smile. “What were you doing at the bank this morning?”

Ethan looked up from where he was sitting down at the dustless dining table. “Sorry?”

“The bank. I was on a Tesco’s run and saw you coming out. I tried shouting but you were already gone.”

“I wasn’t at the bank,” Ethan said, frowning.

“Oh.” Benji scratched his nose. “Are you sure?”

“Yes, I’m sure of where I was this morning.”

“Huh.” Shrugging, he grabbed a kettle for the tea. “Thought I would’ve recognized those pretty cheekbones anywhere.”

Slightly bewildered at this random turn of events, Ethan was about to ask a series of questions regarding his gait, attire, and body language when his brain finally processed Benji’s words for the first time, successfully severing all other train of thought.

“You think I’m pretty?” he asked, surprised.

Benji’s head shot up, looking mildly horrified. “What? No, I—” he spluttered incoherently, face turning a bright red from both embarrassment and strain where he’d been wrestling with the jammed stove gauge. “I was really far away! They had those godawful shades you love so much and—well, I thought he looked like you.”

“I thought you liked my shades,” Ethan said, feigning hurt. “They’re Ray-Bans, 1937 limited edition.”

 _"’Ray-Bans, 1937 limited edition’,”_ Benji parroted under his breath in an offensively exaggerated American accent. “Whatever, just sit tight.” He punched the gauge impatiently and it clicked to life with extreme reluctance.

“Sit tight and look pretty, as they say,” Ethan grinned. It was the first time Benji had made any remark on his physical attributes and Ethan felt slightly silly at how fuzzy and warm it made him inside. 

“Oh, shove it. I’m sure there are plenty of other egotistical bastards out there with the same aviators, and... cheekbones,” Benji said with a long-suffering sigh. “Here’s your sodding biscuits.”

Ethan was given his tea in a large, red mug with _BEAM ME UP, SCOTTY_ printed across the side. He kept it cradled between his hands and filled Benji in on everything he knew of the current state of the IMF. With every minute passing, Benji’s expression grew darker and darker until it was almost as if Ethan was knocking on his friend’s door for the first time again, apartment swathed in shadows and the weight of the world pressing down on his shoulders.

“Not even a letter of deferral?” he asked when Ethan took a break to drink his tea. 

“No. It might just be the processing time...” The very idea was laughable before he had even finished saying it. Benji was already shaking his head.

“That can’t be right. You don’t just put an entire agency on hold after an official reinstatement disclosure. Something’s holding the woman back. Did Brandt hear what the Pentagon had to say?”

“I don’t know,” Ethan said. “His number’s been disconnected, and he hasn’t responded to my emails in days. Will’s always been on and off the grid but this time he’s hiding on purpose.”

“From the CIA, sure. But from you?” Benji scoffed. “Don’t be daft. I’m sure he’s planning on reaching you some way or another. He’s sending us some new IDs, right?”

“Yes, though he didn't say when. They want us out of the way while—”

“Who? Brandt, or the entire IC? They want us in Alaska so badly, so how ‘bout the damn North Pole while we’re at it? You know they haven’t even been arsed to offer me the stupid IT job I had while you buggered off for six months.”

Ethan watched the same spider living behind Benji’s PlayStation slowly crawl towards the folds of one curtain. His gut was now twisting in entirely different ways than before. A dull ache began making itself known at the base of his skull. 

“There’s nothing we can do,” Ethan concluded finally. “I keep tabs on Sloane, and we wait for Will’s call. Going against this will do us no favors if we want to know what's going on.”

The integrity of the IMF, even in its prime, had always been shaky. Ethan remembered countless hours doused in anxiety, holding his breath until the next mission while the suits shouted at each other in conference halls. This should have been no different, except something about the lack of communication between all parties involved gave him reason to believe it wasn't just a waiting game.

Before he could get a response, they were both startled out of their conversation by the door buzzer. A quick glance was enough to confirm that there were no other guests to be expected at this hour. Ethan and Benji’s hands each went flying to their respective belts for a firearm.

Holding his breath, Ethan crept to the entrance, signalling for Benji to cover the windows while he inched closer. 

Ethan kept his back pressed against the wall, watching the knob for any signs of force. And then—

 _“Oi!”_ An unfamiliar man’s voice accompanied the series of raucous banging on the door. _“I know you’re in there, you twat!”_

“Oh, for...” Benji suddenly cursed, jumping from his crouched position at the window. Ethan caught a glimpse of the dismay in his eyes. “Get up, it’s nothing serious.”

“What...?” Ethan hissed, but Benji had already stashed away his weapon, waving at him to do the same. He had barely finished doing so when the door was wrenched open.

“Well, look who finally shows up to London!” From his vantage point, all Ethan could see was a pair of arms reaching around Benji like a bear trap. In the next second, he was being dragged through the threshold like a limp fish. “It’s been too long, Ben!”

“Trevor,” came Benji’s muffled greeting just beyond the open door. “Thought your flight was next week.”

“Sure, but snagged an early one, didn't I? Oh, Ben, how I’ve missed you.” Trevor stood well-built for a man entering his forties, but the peacock suit jacket was ill-fitting, and excessive wax made his auburn hair shine under the florescent bulbs. A quick once-over yielded no immediate visibility of hidden weapons or recording devices on his person. When he spotted Ethan hovering by, his brows jumped in surprise. “Oh, didn’t see you had guests over.”

Benji hastily extracted himself from the rib-crushing hug. “Erm, this is—”

“Jack,” Ethan cut in, offering his hand. “Nice to meet you.”

“Likewise.” He wanted to laugh at the way Trevor proceeded to crush his fingers in a pathetic attempt to assert masculine dominance over him. Ethan could have easily shattered his thumb in two different angles, but opted for a smile instead.

“I told you I’d call for drinks,” Benji was saying as the man invited himself into the apartment. 

“But you wouldn’t,” Trevor said, winking. “Even right after graduating, how many times did you cancel on me and the lads? I know you too well, Ben.”

 _Ben?_ Ethan stared at his friend who appeared to grow more and more uncomfortable with every passing second.

“That’s... not my name anymore.” Apparently, he wasn’t the only one thinking along those lines. “It’s Benji, now.”

Trevor guffawed, slapping his knee. _“Benji?_ You’re joking—are we in primary school, or what? Who the hell calls you _Benji?”_

“I do,” Ethan said coldly, unable to hold his silence any longer. “Can I ask what you’re doing here?”

“Me? I’m just here visiting an old friend from university.” Trevor’s gangly arm slung around Benji’s shoulders. His wrist pressed along a very specific line along his neck that under any other circumstance, Ethan would have already dislocated the offending limb for. “We were flatmates—”

“—floormates,” Benji corrected faintly, face ashen with pain.

“—and my God, was he ever a handful! ‘Course, you wouldn’t know, this was ages ago and I’m sure _Benji_ here is a big boy now, all mature-like.” Another wink. "Every week he’d drag us down to the pub, yeah? Then he’d bet seven quid on who could balance the most peanuts on their forehead.”

“Once,” Benji muttered. “I did that, once.”

“Semantics!” Trevor cried, the force of his ‘brotherly’ jostle nearly knocking its victim over. “What about you, Yankee-Doodle?” He began steering them towards the sofa, but neither of them made to sit. “Here on a business trip? Awful long way to travel for just a cup of tea.” He nodded to the mugs left forgotten and cold on the dining table.

“Unemployed,” Ethan said, unsmiling, “for the moment.”

“I’m sorry about that,” said Trevor, sounding as far from sorry as one could possibly be. “Don’t blame yourself, though—mighty hard competition out there. They take your CV and expect you to have rid the world of global terrorists or something.” He chuckled at his own joke. Ethan couldn’t look away from the arm trapping Benji, who was tracing his cuticles like it was the most fascinating thing in the world. 

Something terrible was stirring inside his belly. The more he let Trevor drone on, the more he felt it uncoil and rear its ugly head. Ethan had to relax his fists from where they’d been clenching at his sides. 

Despite only being introduced for five minutes, Ethan disliked almost everything about this man. From his hyena smile, to his untailored suit, to the arm locking Benji to his hip—he hated it all. _It’s stupid,_ argued the voice of Agent Hunt inside his head. Of course, Benji would have friends he didn’t know about; of course, Benji was allowed be close to men other than him. It was an unspoken agreement among the IMF that personal details were to be factored out of most, if not all, conversations held between its members. On the other hand, there was no rule stating that agents couldn’t make friends and live a relatively normal life given that specifics of their job were strictly forbidden from entering public knowledge. 

And yet, Ethan was standing in front of Benji who was beginning to sweat under the strain of maintaining nonchalance while Trevor’s wrist dug deeper and deeper into his neck. His own hands burned with the desire to knock something out, preferably Trevor's teeth. 

“Look,” Ethan said. “I’m sure you’d both love to catch up, but we were just heading out. Maybe some other time would be best.”

Trevor whistled. “Ben, he’s trying to kick me out of my best mate’s flat!”

“We were in fact, on our way, Trevor. I’m sorry.” Benji had freed himself from the oppressive side embrace and began shuffling closer to Ethan. “I’ll call you later, I promise.”

The speed in which Trevor's smile dropped like a hot potato would have been comical if it weren't for the below zero atmosphere. "'Promise', you say? How long has it been since we've seen each other? And yet you can't even ditch your boyfriend for a man who's flown seven hours to see you!"

"Shut up," Benji said roughly. "He's not my bloody _boyfriend._ I met him on a business trip and we're friends."

"Oh, I'm sure it was a lovely business trip; you just so happened to pick up Mister American Idol along the way." Ethan by no means claimed to be a connoisseur of the social arts, but he was fairly positive that Trevor's tone had turned bitter and vengeful, a far stretch from the obnoxiously jovial front he'd used twenty seconds ago.

Benji, on the other hand, was livid. "You're being a real piece of work, you know that?"

"Is this why you've disappeared off the face of this planet for the past several years?" He spoke as if Ethan wasn't standing a mere three feet away from their conversation. "This whole time, you've ignored your best mate for some stupid—" 

"You need to stop," Ethan cut in loudly at the same time Benji sprang forward to engage in a physical confrontation. He was deterred by Ethan's arm, which had shot out in lightning reflex the moment he noticed Benji's patience splinter in half. "Trevor, I think you should go, now."

“Whatever you say, sweetheart.” With a final glower towards Ethan, Trevor grabbed his briefcase, which he had dropped near the door. “Resume your fucking, or whatever it is that new friends do these days."

"What in the world's gone off with you?" Benji yelled at his retreating back, trying to push past the Ethan-barricade now planted unyieldingly between him and the apartment entrance.

"One day, Ben; we _will_ get those drinks, just you wait!” was all Trevor had left to say. He left just as abruptly as he arrived, stomps fading away to mere echoes on the metal stairs.

The two men were left to stand in the aftermath, both equally stunned at how rapidly things had slithered down the figurative drain.

Hurrying to the gaping door, Ethan strained to listen for anything unusual beyond the everyday bustle of life in the apartment complex. When he was satisfied, he fastened the chain and rushed to draw every curtain over the windows.

“Do you want to explain what the hell that was?” The moment the last window was veiled, he rounded on Benji who had collapsed over his sofa like a string-less puppet. “Who is this guy?”

“You heard what he said, he’s a mate from uni,” Benji murmured. He prodded at his throat, wincing as he hit tender places.

“He knew where you lived,” Ethan continued hotly. “He showed up without any warning, right when I'm here, talks shit like he’s trying to... to one-up me all the time, insults _you—”_

“Oh Christ,” Benji groaned. “Calm down, not you too. I know what you're worried about; Trevor’s an arse, but he’s not dangerous. We took a lot of the same classes and he works in software engineering now.”

“Does he know about what you do, too?” 

Benji’s jaw dropped, scandalized. “Of course not! _How_ could you even—d’you think I just go around telling random people about all this?”

“He’s your best mate.” Ethan’s brain was running a mile per minute, but he still noticed how bitter the words tasted on his tongue. “It could have slipped out, over a beer or two. He could have overheard us in that hallway. His flight may not have been early at all, but part of something bigger. He could even be one of Sloane's, or—”

“No. No, you stop this now.” Despite it all, Benji was struggling to stand again, stabbing an angry finger in Ethan’s direction. “You’re being extremely paranoid! And secondly, that slimebag is not my best mate. He’s been trying to get in touch for a year or so and I’ve always ignored it because as you’ve witnessed for yourself, he is a massive prick.”

“He said you were going to get in touch with him!” Ethan nearly shouted. “Why would he catch an early flight, come all the way here, right when we are stranded with no tools or missions to rely on?”

“Because I felt like utter shite!” Benji snapped, freezing Ethan in his pacing tracks. “I got home and I couldn’t be bothered to move or do anything. I couldn’t sleep and my neck fucking hurt all the time and I could barely swallow anything for the first few days—I needed to distract myself. Trevor called again, like always. And I—I just thought...” His voice wavered at the end, eventually trailing off as he gave up the sarcastic front altogether.

“Benji, I’m sorry.” The panic cleared from his head and Ethan was left to drown in nothing but cold, terrible dread. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t know—”

“’Course you didn’t, I intended to keep it that way,” he croaked, wiping at his eyes. 

While his blood still sang with high-strung adrenaline, a needle of hurt pierced his gut at the thought of Benji choosing to seek comfort from someone like Trevor, rather than him. A month ago he would have kicked himself for such blatant arrogance— _just who did he think he was?_ —but too many things were plaguing his mind that he couldn't control his own treacherous emotions.

Benji was staring at the ground as if he couldn’t believe the debacle of just a few minutes ago. What Ethan couldn’t believe were the next words coming out of his mouth.

"I wanted to call you. There were too many times where I almost did. But you’ve always called first, and when you never did I thought you wanted to be left alone. I wanted to see you, so badly. Even now—how can you miss someone when they're sitting right next to you?"

"Dunno," Benji mumbled. "S'all a bit stupid, if you ask me."

Ethan sat down heavily next to him, smiling humorlessly. "If I'd just stopped being a coward and called—"

“Don’t say it’s your fault. If it's anyone's fault, it's mine," Benji sighed. "I said yes to Trevor back when things were bad. I never imagined he'd show up at the worst possible time, ever." His shoulder brushed Ethan's when he swayed. "Things are different, though. Because of, well, you.”

Ethan couldn't look away from Benji’s face, weary with physical and emotional strain. “What?”

“I couldn't say anything, could I? Knowing you'd just start this cycle up again, this bad pattern with you. You've had enough on your plate to last a lifetime. But then you knocked on my door, saw me living like a pig, and still stayed, for some reason—you know.” Benji’s smile turned sad, as if he was remembering things that pained him to bring forth. “Things changed quite a bit after that, haven’t they?”

“Yes, they have,” Ethan whispered. He tipped his head back just enough so that it rested along the edge of a thin shoulder. Benji responded by resting his hand on Ethan's thigh, squeezing gently as if in assurance. As if Ethan was the one needing to be reassured.

~~~

“Stay at my place tonight,” Ethan said after a long time.

Benji’s face was very close when he swiveled his head to look at him. “Why?”

“I don’t know.” Ethan didn’t want to stay where Trevor could potentially return. “A change of scenery, I guess.”

“Okay.” Benji sat up and blinked rapidly to wake himself up. “You erm, got a spare bed?”

“No, but I have a very comfy couch.” _I don’t mind sharing,_ whispered the damn lepidopterans having a field day in his stomach.

“I’m not kicking you out of your own bed,” Benji said disapprovingly. “I’ll take the couch.”

“The couch doesn’t have the proper ergonomic support for your neck right now.”

“Don’t use big words like ‘ergonomic’.”

Ethan huffed. “Whatever. We’ll just deal with it when we get there, all right?” Through the layered exhaustion, Benji still managed to snigger. 

In the cab, Benji told Ethan of his time at the university, leading up to his first encounter with Trevor. Ethan listened to the story with his attention at half-mast. He was unable to take his mind off the intensity in which his hatred had flared back in Benji’s apartment upon seeing and hearing Trevor interact with his supposedly ‘best’ mate. “He always argued with the professor during class. Not once would he shut up about his upcoming projects, saying he was ‘destined for great things’. He became very jealous of the generic tech position I landed in the government. Of course, he just thinks I sit in front of computers all day. So much to envy.” He shook his head.

Was there something of real importance that warranted his suspicion? Or, Ethan thought, perhaps it was merely his own frustrations being twisted into something despicable that he was projecting on to Benji’s friends.

Disgusted at his own selfishness which seemed to know no limits, Ethan swallowed reflexively. 

Through the window, lights and pedestrians blurred past like smudges on a painting. He searched for something to say, but his mind drew blanks whenever he made to open his mouth. Something very warm wrapped itself around his fist which he'd clenched over his jeans without ever realizing. Ethan looked down to see Benji’s hand covering his own. 

The rest of the ride back home felt less like a death sentence, and Ethan clung to the small warmth that Benji offered like a lifeline.

His unit did not carry an abundance of pillows and blankets, so they could not turn the couch into the cushion fort that Ethan had wanted. Therefore, after much arguing and near yelling, the bed was allocated to a sulking Benji. 

A quick, microwaveable dinner later, they were resting on Ethan’s couch together, staring at the multitude of email tabs that stayed open in case he heard from any of the recipients.

“You need a new laptop,” Benji commented randomly. “And a new phone, for that matter.”

“As long as it works, I’m fine,” Ethan said tiredly, refreshing the page as if he hadn’t done so already a million times for the past several days. 

Neither of them spoke while Ethan typed out a brand new email for Brandt. Long and deliberating wasn't quite his style, but there were times when desperation drove a man to extremities beyond average limits. The digital clock flashed midnight; he'd been debating on whether or not to add an exclamation mark in the subject line to show how close he was to losing his mind, but a pleasant weight settled on his thigh and he looked down to see Benji had claimed it as a pillow. 

“Relaxing.” Benji’s tired but genuine smile stole the last lingering breath upon Ethan’s lips. “You should try it sometime.”

“I don’t think I know how,” Ethan confessed, afraid to move or look away. 

“That’ll explain several things, then.”

A tiny _ping_ made him look up to the screen. A new email notification was blinking at him, and Ethan clicked on it to see a cheque of a rather hefty sum deposited into his personal account, query labelled as ‘gift’. _Ah,_ he thought with relief. _That’ll be Will._ He thought it slightly odd that Brandt would be so bold as to make the transfer outside of a secure network. Nevertheless, the man worked in mysterious ways and Ethan guessed it was a hide-in-plain-sight type of ploy. 

When he closed his laptop, Benji’s breaths were deep and level with sleep. Ethan felt himself drifting away rapidly, longing to hold Benji close. 

He was dreaming, and there was a leaf that fell on top of Benji's head. Ethan brushed it away, and kissed Benji's smiling lips.

They were happy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, thank you so very much for reading! Finally, the main plot approaches.


	6. you make me happy when skies are grey

_Julia’s wedding dress was woven from silver silk and shone like starlight in the evening dusk. In her hand was a single flower, picked off the moss growing in wreaths around the medical camp. Ethan watched her husband kiss her hand, and together they slipped away, into the mist that settled over the plains of wintry Kashmir._

_He turned to face Benji, who stood on a cabin balcony. The tuxedo he’d worn to the Opera was too thin for the elements and he shivered in the frigid air. Ethan walked up the steps with care, afraid that too much weight would splinter the panels beneath his feet._

_“I feel rather out of place,” Benji told him once they were eye to eye._

_“So did I.” Ethan lifted a silver chain for them to see. Hanging from it was a plain, metal ring, which matched the one he carried in his pocket. “But then you came to me, and I've never been happier.”_

_He fastened the chain around Benji’s neck, whose hand came up to touch the ring with silent awe. The necklace began swelling under his fingers, fine links twisting into coarse rope fiber that bit and sliced flesh._

_“Then I’m right where I should be,” whispered Benji, pressing his cheek into Ethan’s hand as they tightened the noose around his throat._

The dream then shifted into realms of the indistinguishable, a kaleidoscope of abstractions that held no significant meaning. When he woke, he would never remember it again.

~~~

For Ethan, mornings had usually arrived in the same manner for the past several months. Waking up alone, jerking out of some cold dream he couldn’t remember was something he’d resigned himself to on a regular basis. 

Today was different from the other days in that Ethan’s return to consciousness was a slow and languid process. He slipped in and out, failing to distinguish between his true surroundings and the fabrications of his sluggish mind. 

One thing he knew for certain was that whatever he was latched onto, it was inconceivably warm and he didn’t want to lose its weight from where it was held against the length of his body. Benji shifted minutely, and Ethan’s arm instinctively tightened around him to prevent the man from falling off the precipice of the narrow couch. 

His voice was rough from disuse. “You were supposed to take the bed."

Benji responded by digging further into the crook between the couch and Ethan’s chest. “Got erg’nomic support right here,” he mumbled sleepily. 

His spine was aching something fierce and the arm trapped under Benji’s weight had grown completely numb. Instead of dislodging himself, he dared to brush his lips over the crown of Benji’s head. Outside, the clouds had shifted to let the sun wash in through the window. Yellow light fell on their faces, warm and blinding.

“God,” Benji groaned, sounding muffled. He burrowed his face deeper into the couch to avoid the nuisance of the morning rays. “Don’t wanna move.”

Ethan’s other arm was swiftly passing into the pins and needles phase. “Me neither, but we have work to do.”

“Don’t tell me we’re looking for bad guys again.”

“Nope, just breakfast.”

“Eugh. Fine, then.”

It took a bit of a struggle to untangle themselves. Now fully awake, Benji looked sheepish at the fact that they’d somehow ended up clinging to each other like adhesives during the night. Ethan, still feeling fuzzy with sleep, could only notice the way Benji’s hair stuck up in adorable disarray.

"Sorry." Benji cleared his throat after they remained seated on opposite ends of the couch, each blinking stupidly for several heartbeats. "I kind of—overstepped, er... suppose it was rather inappropriate—"

"I don't mind," Ethan told him. He returned Benji's incredulous gaze with a smile. "Really, I don't."

"...right," Benji said. He quickly turned away, but there was no hiding the way his ears had grown their signature pink. "That's... good."

"Yes," said Ethan unnecessarily. "Breakfast?"

"Breakfast."

With a barren fridge and no ingredients to put together, they walked to a quaint, hole-in-the-wall sandwich bar a few blocks westward. Ethan scoured the papers while Benji ordered turkey subs and coffee. The tiny monitor above their heads played a news channel, which could be heard quite easily as there were no other customers behind their booth. Nothing out of the ordinary caught his attention, which was both relieving and disconcerting at the same time. 

“You know, I’ve wondered,” Benji said. “Why is it always five seconds?”

Ethan pulled his nose out of an article about underground pickpockets. “What do you mean?”

“The debriefings. Why five seconds? Why not thirty, or even a full minute?”

“Any evidence that can be traced back to the operatives must be eliminated,” Ethan explained.

“Sure, but what if you weren’t paying attention? What if you… I dunno, sneezed? Spaced out, didn’t hear a crucial piece of information? ‘Oh, tough luck, mate.’ Then, poof.” Benji fluttered his fingers in an imitation of smoke. 

Ethan tried to hide his laugh behind the newspaper. “Well, it’s assumed that they have your full attention at all times,” he said, fully aware that the grin was audible in his voice. 

Benji shook his head. “It’s madness. The whole lot of it.”

Their food arrived, and the rest of the paper was forgotten in lieu of diving into it. By the time the reporter moved on to soccer finales, Ethan had swallowed his last bite and stood up. “I’ll get this,” he said over Benji’s sandwich-stuffed protests.

It only took half a minute for Benji to catch up to him at the front, but Ethan was already passing the reader back over the counter. “You bastard," he complained. "That was entirely unnecessary.”

“It was nothing, I promise.”

"Nothing, my arse. What do I owe you, now?"

"Just your support, Benji," Ethan grinned. "That's all I ever need."

"Since when did you become such a corny sap, Ethan Hunt?" Benji grumbled, but despite it all, looked pleased.

“I’m sorry, sir,” interrupted a woman’s voice. “Your card was declined.”

Ethan, who’d already been making for the door, slowly swiveled around on his heels. “I beg your pardon?”

Beside him, Benji rolled his eyes so hard that it was near miraculous he didn’t give himself an aneurysm. “So much for being the gentleman.”

“No. No, that can’t be right.” Ethan swiped again as per the cashier’s prompt. To prove him wrong, the reader beeped twice in error. "I think your machine is broken."

“Oh, move over.” Benji pushed Ethan out of the way, reaching for his wallet. “I’ll get it.” His chip was read on the first attempt and they left the shop hurriedly.

Even after the bill was subtracted from the other man's pocket, Ethan couldn’t stop staring at his card. “I should have been able to pay for that,” he told no one in particular.

“Relax, it’s happened to us all. No hard feelings.” Benji dragged him out of the way, narrowly avoiding a collision with a cyclist. “Jesus! Watch where you’re going, will you?”

“I have money,” Ethan said, slightly more urgently. He suddenly regretted eating so much.

“Yes, I’m sure you’re absolutely loaded,” Benji assured. “Can we not linger in the middle of London traffic, please?”

The returning walk to his condo felt strangely claustrophobic. The cacophony of a bustling city resonated from all directions, but Ethan only listened through a fog. He turned to Benji, who'd picked up on the change in atmosphere and had been watching him with astute concern in his eyes. "I need a favor," he said finally. "Could you—"

"Run sweeps? Yes." Benji immediately stopped to hail a cab. "Both personal and mission-exclusive?"

"Just personal," Ethan amended as the black vehicle pulled up to the curb. "The CIA is still sitting on everyone's mission assets, including mine." After watching Benji's cab disappear into the sea of traffic, he hurried along the rest of his way.

Upon the very second of returning to his unit, Ethan barely toed off his shoes before making a beeline for his laptop. His phone buzzed two minutes later, and he left it on speaker as he waited impatiently for the computer to chug to life.

“It just doesn’t make sense.” He bounced his knee rapidly as the screen continued to load. “Will’s cheque—”

 _“Cheque? What cheque?”_ The sound of fingers flying at lightning pace over a keyboard nearly drowned out Benji's voice. 

“From last night,” Ethan said distantly. “He sent me a cheque. I saw the email before I fell asleep...” The browser flashed open and Ethan nearly broke his 'enter' key in his haste to log in. "Are you in as well?"

_"No, I've just piggybacked your network address so that I'm seeing everything you see. This program is from the dark ages, I tell you."_

"You used to carry a spare one, back when you first passed the exam," Ethan murmured absentmindedly. "It was a field-grade processor. You said your games ran perfectly on it."

 _"I lent it to a friend six months later,"_ Benji said miserably. _"Although, I'm sure he'll bring it back if I rang him now. Bit too late for that, though, and I don't want to risk triggering my own alarm while my sweeps are still running."_

Ethan had been about to comment on the irony of letting Benji hack into his online banking to find a possible hacker, when the buffering page decided to load all at once. There, he saw three numbers in a combination he never expected to find associated with his own financial wellbeing.

_0.00 USD_

_“Oh,”_ Benji said, faintly.

His head, like the zeroes on the screen, kept drawing blanks. “Can we reach Will.”

_“You said his phone was disconnected—”_

“Benji," Ethan nearly growled, stomach plummeting at terminal velocity.

The constant typing on the other end stopped. _“I’ll do my best."_ His somber tone meant there was little to hope for. With a promise to call back, Benji hung up. Ethan took the opportunity to dial his banking office, but a quick calendar check reminded him it was Sunday. Cursing, he threw himself back down on the couch.

It was hardly believable that a mere two hours ago he'd woken up at this very same spot with Benji in his arms. Perhaps it was a little too ambitious to describe it as such, since their embrace had been less loving and more for essential survival on the narrow strip of furniture. Nevertheless, it was Ethan would always remember as something special. He closed his eyes and tried to return to that moment, seeking to ground his tumultuous thoughts.

He thought of the heat trapped between their bodies, of the sun illuminating Benji's hair, of kissing the top of his head and smelling his scent on Ethan's clothes.

The new layers of duct tape had significantly muffled the vibration impact of his mobile, but he still managed to pick up on the second ring.

_“I couldn’t find him. I’m sorry, Ethan, but I only have so many tools at hand. Even if my laptop is slightly better than yours.”_

“Okay," he relented. "What about an address? Is he staying somewhere in Washington, or...”

_“I can tell you that he checked out of Fairmont Hotel four days ago.”_

What little ounce of tranquility he'd gathered instantly evaporated. "Can we bypass the CIA’s firewall and hitchhike the network node registered to his AIN?”

 _“I’m on a Macbook,”_ Benji informed him sarcastically. _“I’m a technician, not a bloody wizard.”_

"What the hell are they doing?" Ethan hissed, more to himself. "I don't know what Will gets up to in his spare time, but Luther wouldn't just disappear without a trace like this."

But at this point, things had become too obvious to miss. An event or revelation of some kind had been enough to warrant both men's suspicions towards all governing bodies that knew of their names. Something had most certainly happened after their last phone call and neither of them had the resources to find out what. 

_“Speaking of traces.”_ Benji's perturbed voice broke through his internal debate. _“There’s something else you should know."_

"What is it?" Ethan asked wearily.

_"Even the most notorious hackers in the world leave some sort of digital footprint, no matter what. It doesn't matter how crafty you are—some things are just unavoidable."_

"Yes, Benji. I'm aware of this."

_"I've finished running through your banking activity, and it's all... normal. There’s nothing there. No one’s hacked your account or stolen any information.”_

The silence in his apartment suddenly grew twice as oppressive.

“That's not possible,” he ground out through his teeth, hating the way the hairs on the back of his neck stood up.

_“Ethan, it had to have been you.”_

“No. That doesn't make any sense—what exactly does that even mean?”

 _“Just what I said,”_ Benji clarified. _“All the transactions—deposits and withdrawals; they’re all made by you.”_

“How is that possible? I never touched that money!”

_“I know, but that’s what it looks like and I can’t give you another explanation—”_

__

__

“There has to be another explanation,” Ethan said fiercely. “Can you trace it? Find out where it’s at?"

 _“Macbook,"_ Benji reminded disapprovingly.

He was pacing again, agitating his hair over and over again as he strode meaningless laps around his kitchen and lounge. "You said that everyone leaves a footprint, so there’s gotta be one. We're just not looking in the right place."

How could he have acted upon something without his own knowledge? He briefly entertained the notion of drug-induced amnesia. Not a single moment within his past few days were worthy of suspicion, nor did he feel disoriented in the slightest. However, it was the only logical explanation to such an illogical turn of events.

Something plastic clinked against a wooden surface. Ethan solidified in the middle of his tracks.

 _“Hello?”_ Benji’s tinny voice grew in both volume and concern. _“Is everything all right?”_

Ethan stared at his bedroom door, which stood inauspiciously ajar. He detached the phone from his ear, cocking his head.

_“Ethan, are you okay?”_

“I have to go.” He didn’t dare raise his voice above a whisper. “Don’t call again.”

_“Wait—!”_

Ethan hit the 'end' button soundlessly. He replaced the phone in his hand with his firearm, loaded and leveled in front of him. The darkness spilling from the open sliver held no promises of what lay hidden beyond. Setting his jaw, Ethan kicked open the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You'll have to suffer through my repeating myself but I've never gotten such a big response from a fic before. I wish I could print out everyone's comments and frame them! Thank you for reading, I you all.


	7. you'll never know dear, how much I love you

The door was built from chipboard and swung on paper-thin metal hinges. It was no secret that many London complexes were still relics of a bygone age, one where infrastructural robusticity was still a work in progress. He ended up kicking an Ethan-foot-shaped hole into the middle of the frame before the entire thing fell atop his drawer mirror. 

Glass exploded and showered the carpet in razor-edged shards. Plumes of sawdust and paint chips clouded the air. Leaping over the remnants of the door, Ethan broke into his own room, ready to open fire.

There was no axe murderer lying in wait, nor any six-foot tall assassin wielding a machete. A single glance to the corner was all he needed. The breath he’d held came tumbling out at the same time as the intruder’s own, who lounged across his bed with practiced ease.

“I must note,” said the White Widow, her voice lilting and playful. “You are very clean for a single man living alone.”

Blood still thundering in his ears, Ethan lowered the gun, but his finger did not leave the trigger. 

“Or so I thought to say,” she continued, rising from where she was pressed over his pillow. “What a mess you have made.”

With each step she took, broken bits of mirror cracked and splintered beneath her pearly shoes. Once there was no space left between their feet, she leaned forward to kiss him. 

Like an effigy of himself hewn from ice, Ethan remained unflinching while the White Widow nibbled around his tightly sealed mouth. Her gaze fluttered to his, assessing the way his eyes scowled down at her, apathetic despite her efforts. Failing to move him in the slightest, she sighed and gave up.

“Still not working,” she murmured, lips quirking in a melancholy smile. “You must really love her, Mister Hunt.”

“What the hell do you want from me?” Ethan demanded quietly, unwilling to participate in whatever trickery she played. 

“Will you not ask how I got in?” said the White Widow. “Or is finding strange ladies in your bed an occurrence more frequent than not?”

“Technicalities become irrelevant once the glass is already spilled,” Ethan remarked, not bothering to mask his sardonic tone with pleasantries.

There was laughter in the woman’s eyes. “Forging a key to your lock was difficult,” she confessed, “but my brother is a man of many talents.” 

“Stop avoiding my question,” Ethan warned. “What are you doing here, and what’s stopping me from killing you, after everything you heard?”

“Kill me?” The White Widow looked delighted. “There would be no greater honour than to die by the hands of one esteemed Ethan Hunt.”

“Cut the bullshit.” Another day and the notion of entertaining her sly contestations may have felt less tedious. But alas, Ethan’s temper was beyond firing on all cylinders and was just short of combusting altogether. “Whatever deals we’ve made in the past are done.”

Alanna’s eyes held glass shards of their own, which sliced and cut through Ethan’s glare like a scalpel through paper skin. She tipped her head back, drawing Ethan’s attention to his bedside table. Placed on the oaken surface was a black phone. “A gift, of sorts.”

Without taking his attention off her, Ethan slowly picked his way over to the table. The phone was sleek plastic, unblemished. The screen responded to his fingerprint when he touched to wake it. 

“You’ll find my contact information there,” said the White Widow. “It is connected by the most secure network we could develop under direct scrutiny of both the American and UK governing bodies.”

“Our business was over the moment you shoved that criminal into your trunk.” He tossed the phone in the air and caught it again. “You expect me to believe this wasn’t tampered with?”

Alanna’s demeanor had always been something of an enigma. Her snake-like smiles were almost textbook, as expected from most loyal servants of the contraband industry. However, the curve of her lips had formed something a little less cunning, and more reflective of what he could only describe as genuine.

“There is a contract, Mister Hunt, to which I am bound,” she began. “The contents of which, specifically, demands the infallible deliverance of Solomon Lane to the Belmarsh facility, while I am held responsible for any damages incurred during transport. The MI6 will then claim full custody as per agreement with the CIA.”

Ethan’s knowledge of Sloane’s involvement with the White Widow was sparse at best. The Walker situation had unleashed nothing short of a figurative shit-fest among the high seats who scrambled to disavow any records pertaining to Walker’s deep-rooted ties within the American government. Even while lying immobile in hospital scrubs, he had caught glimpses of the vicious arms race between the Parliament’s meddling and the CIA scrambling to deflect all manner of investigatory action. 

“So you can imagine my concern,” Alanna continued, gesturing towards the phone, “when along the way, my convoy is intercepted. Somebody has offered a rather large sum for just two days’ alone time with the prisoner.”

“Why are you telling me this?” Ethan inquired quietly.

“It couldn’t possibly be, I’d thought.” The subject line was untitled, and there it sat in the nameless application. “Why would the man, who fought so valiantly for his cause, suddenly want to risk it all by severing the future reigns that the MI6 would wield over Lane's future?” Ethan tapped to open the email which was already marked read.

 _7,000,000 IN GBP_  
_QTR DOWN @ 23:59 GMT_  
_48.00 HRS_

There was no signature, nor anything traceable that could’ve led to whomever dispatched the message. “Considering the nature of my work, Hunt, you must understand that mysterious propositions are not uncommon. I’ve connected many clients whose faces I’ve never seen, and a great number have been through writing-exclusive conversations.” 

“And yet, you still thought it was me,” Ethan said, grimly. 

“I had... reasons,” Alanna explained, hesitant. “As for why I came here? Perhaps I wanted to see for myself. But after overhearing that phone call of yours, I had all the answers I needed.”

“How can you be sure? Maybe I want to exact revenge on the man who almost turned the world into radioactive dust,” Ethan said, with a curl of his lip. “Just the two of us somewhere quiet, nice and personal.”

Her laugh rang short and sweet. “I pride myself to be an adequate judge of character, and you are anything but a vengeful man.”

After his initial arrest, Ethan had sat down with the detailed report on Lane’s life history. There was a picture clipped to a scanned page from one of his ledgers. Ethan recognized it immediately as the fittable detonator that had been strapped to Benji’s body. The surge of anger he’d felt at the desk was nothing short of what he’d experienced when looking into Benji’s petrified eyes for the first time. “You don’t know me.”

Alanna hummed and merely tilted her head in acquiescence. “The coordinates of the extraction point are saved in that phone, as well as Lane’s last recorded location. If you go now, you will make it before the day runs out.”

His fingers tightened on the aforementioned phone, but it didn’t give so easily as his own traumatized mobile. “You’re giving me a mission.”

“If you choose to accept it,” she said, softly.

“Like hell I would,” Ethan countered. 

“Lane is insured. If I do not deliver him to Belmarsh within the timeframe we’ve agreed upon, I will be in a tight position.”

“Then don’t do it,” Ethan said. “Whoever this is, all you need to do is decline their offer.”

“It’s not quite that easy, you see,” said the White Widow. “They have already taken him.”

Whatever confidence Ethan had left at his arsenal was extinguished by a single breath. 

“Yesterday, at the time specified in the email, an anonymous courier delivered the down payment. It was around the same hour that the vehicle transporting Lane to the final extraction point went missing. This morning it was found by my men, along the bottom of the Thames with no Lane in sight.”

“Hold on,” Ethan interrupted, struck with a realization. “Quarter of seven million? Did they pay in cash?”

“It was a cheque,” answered the White Widow. The look in her eyes spoke of everything Ethan needed to know about whose name was signed on it. “Should you find him, the seven million will be yours.”

The latter half of her speech barely reached his ears. It felt as though he’d swallowed a mouthful of Saharan desert sand. “Where are these coordinates?” he asked roughly. 

“In the gallery folder. There is no location tracker in that device, so you’ll have to navigate yourself some other way.”

Along with a great many other things, Ethan was forbidden from registering a vehicle of any sort under his name. Previous cars had been supplied by the IMF, and the dubious reinstatement meant their branch was still naught but a sapling amidst a formidable forest of agencies constituting the American government.

 _If_ the reinstatement was true in any way, shape, or form. Seeds of doubt that he'd long since nursed in his heart were now in full bloom.

He walked her to his front door in silence. Despite having gained his cooperation, grim shadows never left Alanna’s visage. “Lane was en route to a warehouse in Dartford. We lost track at about nine miles east from the destination.” Her hand rested on his shoulder, brief and foreboding. “Good luck, Mister Hunt.”

Ethan barely managed a nod. He watched the tails of her white overcoat disappear around the hall bend, senseless thoughts brewing in a maelstrom of unease. 

Turning back, the condo felt unnaturally barren and unwelcome. He looked to the corner where his sparse belongings still sat packed in boxes, untouched. Aside from his computer and mobile, he had nothing of importance to his possession. What he truly needed was unobtainable, and now, even more so with the state of his finances. 

He had hung up on the only person he could trust to consult. Returning the call was out of the option, now. He stuffed his laptop into a Kevlar knapsack. The gun returned to his belt and the magazines he bundled up with a few changes of clothing.

A part of him had always entertained the possibility of the CIA tapping into his calls. Doing so wouldn't be difficult in the slightest; although, what they could possibly be listening for, Ethan could not fathom. The false rumors of him and John Lark being the same entity had been smothered with relative ease, but Ethan had accumulated many enemies during his ridiculous longevity in the field. There were still plenty who would jump at any opportunity to sink their teeth into him, and would not be fazed by a small hiccup such as the discovery of Walker's sleeper identity.

Leaving in search for Lane meant that he'd be cutting himself off from what little communication he'd had with Benji. Although this meant his personal mobile was rendered to nothing more than a lump of old plastic, he still found himself pocketing it along with the handsome, black smart phone.

Informing Benji would have been the next logical step. With Brandt and Luther utterly out of the question, there was only one man he could depend on to scour Alanna's phone and trace the authenticity of the coordinates.

He thought of the numbers glowing malignantly over Benji's chest, of the way his body would have swung lifelessly on a noose in some desolate cabin while Lane looked on with a filthy, filthy smile. He thought of the way Benji grew jittery whenever Lane was mentioned, of the way his eyes darted around the room when someone spoke his name.

Ethan had already memorized each and every bruise on Benji's throat and vowed to never mention Lane in front of him again. He would slip away for a couple days, track Lane down and drag him back to the White Widow. Benji would be none the wiser, and their lives would move on.

Perhaps then he'd say it, out loud. Guarantees of any sort were always hard to come by, but with the IMF's fate lost in uncertainty more than ever, Ethan was beginning to wonder what the hell mattered anymore.

Without a second glance to the rest of his belongings, Ethan left his condo with the full expectation to never return there again. 

~~~

The muffled voices could be heard even before he fully reached Benji’s door. It was a heated argument, seeming to have gone on for a while. Ethan recognized Benji and, to his dismay, Trevor. The third man sounded unfamiliar but equally vexed. He knocked with deliberate brusqueness, effectively cutting off the stream of noise in an instant.

It was Benji who opened the door. His face flashed through a series of emotions in rapid succession, ultimately settling on a peculiar hybrid of relief and apprehension. _You’re okay,_ and _you’ve got horribly bad timing._

Ethan gave his arm a brief squeeze and stepped around him to observe the scene in the lounge. Trevor was standing in the middle, arms crossed with defiant obstinacy. Sitting on the ground with his face in his hands was the man Ethan had never seen before. Upon his entrance, their heads swiveled to him simultaneously, each with varying degrees of surprise. 

“Oh, it’s you again,” Trevor drawled, rounding on Ethan like a bison ready to charge. “Haven’t you got a LinkedIn profile to polish up?”

“What’s going on?” Benji had hastily fastened the chain to join him at his side. “You all right?”

“Yeah,” Ethan lied, frowning. The hostile atmosphere was stifling, or perhaps that was just Trevor's height and his glare pinning him to the spot. “What about you? Doesn’t seem like you’re having a very cheerful gathering.”

“Are you Jack?” The man on the ground was getting to his feet. Next to Trevor, he stood slightly shorter—closer to Ethan's height—as he reached out a hand. “Oliver Roswald. Benji talks about you a lot.”

Wary but still having a part to play, Ethan accepted Roswald’s hand, whose grip was firm and respectable. “Nice to meet you,” he said, albeit rather stiffly. “Another friend from university?”

Roswald laughed sheepishly, scratching the dark hair on his head. He looked extremely uncomfortable. “That’s right. Listen, Jack, erm... I know we just met and all, but I must tell you about the processor—”

Ethan threw a sharp glance towards Benji and all he got was a widening of his eyes that yelled, _just go with it._

“—I had it sitting on my desk at home for ages, right next to my disks. Never had time to play games anymore, you know? And then Trevor wanted to use it to render his program—”

“I borrowed it for one fucking night!” Trevor barked, brandishing a finger. “I said I’d mail it back, didn’t I? And I did!” He glowered at Roswald, then Ethan. “Fucking bellend here’s lost your stupid processor.”

“I swear to God I put it right back, where it always sat,” Roswald said desperately, chewing on his nails. “Then I got called away for work, and completely forgot I had it again. But I must’ve misplaced it at the time, having been moved around all of a sudden, for someone else—”

“And that’s why I’m to blame?” Trevor’s face was slowly matching the color of his wax-coated hair. “For being a bystander who supposedly catalyzed a mistake _you_ made?"

"I never said that," Roswald bit out, still not facing the near apoplectic man.

"Right, so you weren't thinking it, or otherwise implying it with every other sub-textual cue. You know, I’ve missed this. I’m glad we’ve had this reunion of ours—truly, this friendship knows no limits!”

“Jack, I’m sorry.” Shame was written all over Roswald’s face as he went to bury it in his hand again. “It’s a bloody good processor; it must’ve cost you a fortune.”

“It’s from my work,” Ethan said. “Don’t worry about it.”

“Work?” Trevor scoffed from behind. “You said you were unemployed!”

“Well, I’m sure there are plenty of things he failed to mention,” Roswald snapped, matching Trevor’s stance as he turned to finally confront him. “To _you?_ Jesus Christ, you—has it never occurred to you for a second why none of us wanted to get drinks with you?”

“Oh, I know why,” Trevor sneered. “Namely, the shitheads who call themselves my friends think they’re so fucking superior because they licked some government goon's bollocks—” He threw a dirty look towards Benji, who had remained tight-lipped throughout the whole encounter. “—and now you can’t even be bothered by us peasants of the working class. Isn’t that right? You’re deluding yourself, Oliver. Stop siding with _wee little Benji-boo_ and his cocksucking American boyfriend.”

“Yeah, I’ll think about it,” Roswald said coldly. “After you make an appointment to surgically remove that massive tree up your arse.”

“Fuck you, Trevor,” Benji spat. 

“I’m sure that’s what he tells you every night,” Trevor snarled, spittle flying from his mouth.

Ethan’s calm voice did not match the fury bubbling from within. “Leave this apartment, before I do something all of us will regret.”

Trevor looked at Ethan as if he’d just shoved an entire lemon into his mouth. “Was that your piss-poor attempt to be intimidating? I'm appalled. Though I'd be remiss to spend another second here, looking at your ugly mug.” 

“Get out of my house,” Benji whispered. “Don’t try to ring me ever again.”

“We’ll see about that,” Trevor muttered. He gestured rudely to Roswald before tearing the locking chain off its place. He marched out of the door, leaving the three men to catch their breath in his wake. 

Benji and Roswald collapsed into the dining chairs while Ethan threw his knapsack onto the sofa. “Why was that bastard in here again?” he growled, addressing both drooping forms over the table. “And why did he have my processor?”

“It’s my fault,” Roswald admitted tiredly, before Benji could say a word. “He works on big, commercial-grade programs and he said he was on a deadline; I still had the processor lying around from our old gaming sessions."

“I called Oliver to ask for it back,” Benji explained, face flushed red with stress. “He told me what happened, and if there was even the slightest chance that Trevor still had it...” 

"Trevor was always a bit of a dickhead, but it was never like this. He’s become unbearable and I don't know why.” Roswald pulled at his hair. “God, I’m such an idiot. I knew it wasn’t mine to lend out, but he sounded so desperate at the time and I...” He averted Ethan's gaze miserably.

“You didn’t want to refuse your friend. You did what you thought you had to do, is all.”

“But what will you do now?” asked Roswald, worried. “It seemed very important.”

“I’m sure they’ll acquire a new one at work." If only he had more time. The day was running out and Ethan could not waste any more minutes. He checked the digital stove clock. “Listen, I need to go soon.”

“Go where?” Benji sat up immediately. His favorite raccoon print tee was wrinkled and unkempt. “I thought you had stuff left to do.”

“It’s finished,” Ethan informed him. “I’m running the next errand now. I just need a way to get there, like a car.”

"That far off?" Benji asked, chewing his lip in thought. "Erm, maybe rent one? Or something, I dunno—"

"I can't afford that," Ethan reminded him, raising an eyebrow.

“Hey, I’ve got a motorbike,” Roswald said, perking up. “I hardly ride it anymore. Bought it with my first paycheck out of uni, thought I’d be popular with the ladies.” He snorted, shaking his head. “I drive a Chevy now—tad bit more practical.”

Ethan stared at the man, thinking of all the potential tragic ends a motorcycle could meet once designated under his control. “I don’t know if I should,” he began, hesitant. 

“It’s the least I can do,” Roswald said, grimacing. “Honestly, I can’t tell you enough how sorry I am. Just bring it back in one piece and all’s good, yeah?”

“Absolutely.” Ethan smiled forcefully. “All in one piece. Thank you,” he added, with more sincerity. 

“Cheer up, mate.” Roswald reached out and shook Benji’s shoulder in encouragement. “You know Trevor speaks out of his arse all the time. Half the shite he says, he doesn’t even know he’s saying it.”

"I know," Benji said, although the downturn of his mouth never went away. "Oliver, I'm sorry, but could you give us a moment?"

"Of course." Roswald stood quickly, nodding at Ethan. "The bike's not far out, if you want it now. I'll just be in the silver Malibu by the bins."

"That would be great," Ethan agreed. It was only after they heard his footsteps fade completely that were able to unshackle the gates that detained the real conversations.

“I’m sorry, Ethan.” Benji was the first to speak. He dug his fists into his temples, sighing so hard that Ethan was almost afraid he’d collapse a lung. “About Trevor. The things he said, God—”

“Hey, don’t worry about it.” Gathering Benji into a quick embrace came so naturally to him, now. “Roswald is right, he doesn’t think before speaking. Why did he think that the processor was mine?”

Benji ducked his head in embarrassment. "It was back when I lent it to him, years ago. He asked where I got it from and I thought if I mentioned some nameless work buddy from America, I wouldn't have to explain; I was horrible at lying, back then. I know, it's moronic."

"It's not." He gave the sagging shoulders a gentle shake. "You hadn't even taken the field exam, yet. That kind of stuff wasn't expected of you."

“Where are you going, anyway?” Benji asked. "And why so suddenly?"

“I think I found my money,” Ethan muttered back. “Or at least, where it ended up.”

“What?” Benji looked at Ethan as if he’d grown two heads, or at least one with a brain somehow more computer-savvy than his. “How on Earth—”

“The White Widow dropped by. She told me she received a cheque, but I can’t be sure of anything, yet. I have to check things out.”

“I’ll come with you,” Benji began immediately, but Ethan had anticipated this response and was already talking over him. 

“If someone is really out there using my name to trade illicit deals, then I can't have you associated with me in case something does go wrong. No, Benji, _listen,"_ he said urgently, when the man's sharp intake of breath signaled another shouting match, reminiscent of Vienna. "If I do get arrested somehow, I need your help from the other side. Find the evidence to prove my innocence, or break me out otherwise."

"Ethan, what's happening?" Benji looked stricken. His eyes searched his face for answers, as if they were written there in undecipherable code.

"I don't know." That much was the truth, plain and simply put. "I don't know, but Benji, please. Do you understand?" 

"...I understand," Benji relented, as if it pained him to do so.

The urge to kiss him was so overpowering that every muscle in Ethan's body wept when he stilled after holding Benji's face in his hands. "I promise," he said fiercely, "that no matter what, I will never let you get hurt again." 

"I know," Benji whispered. He pressed his cheek into one of Ethan's hands and closed his eyes. "But for the love of God, take care of yourself out there."

~~~

Roswald's car was badly parked between the overflowing dumpster and a decrepit '77 Ford that looked to be on its last wheels. The man waved him over once he spotted Ethan picking his way around the strewn trash. "Can't ever find a decent spot around these parts," he grumbled as they climbed in. "But then again, I should be thankful I don't have to take the bloody tube."

Ethan fastened his seatbelt, taking care to leave a good space for easy access to his concealed firearm. He scanned the dusty but completely ordinary dashboard. The ashtray was clean, never used. An empty protein shaker occupied one of the cup holds.

To avoid the stationary traffic, they pulled into a side road. "So what is it that you do?" Ethan asked casually. "Trevor also seemed to imply a government position..."

"Nah, he was just talking about Benji," Roswald said, wincing. "We were in the same program at uni, the three of us. Took way too long, but eventually I realized I couldn't write a line of code to save my life. I'm an actor, now."

"Oh." Ethan turned to him, not bothering to mask his surprise. "Are you, uh, famous?" He was hopelessly ignorant on the alien world that was modern pop culture. He couldn't remember the last time he watched a movie, or went to a show. The Opera didn't count, for he was too busy dealing bullets with two other marksmen plus one markswoman, with an Austrian Chancellor caught in the middle.

"No, not at all! I just do small gigs here and there."

A small, colorful catalogue was sticking out of the map pocket on Ethan's side. He pulled it out to flip through the cast and crew names. _"Rabbit Hole,"_ Ethan read off the cover. "Says here that you've had shows around a lot of the major cities."

"My first time performing internationally! But that was almost a year ago, and just a minor role at that," Roswald admitted sheepishly. "It's nothing special, really, but it felt like a dream come true, you know?"

"That's impressive," Ethan said. "You should give yourself more credit."

The man grinned. "Thanks, mate. I'll send you and Benji an autograph when it's worth a couple million."

He was a hopelessly open book, Ethan thought, and yet he still wasn't sure what to make of Benji's school friend. His pale complexion made sense after knowing that he likely spent most of his days in a darkened theatre. Roswald, like Trevor, had a sturdy build. Again, not surprising for someone who put himself on display. Most of all, their brief interaction at the apartment was enough to prove that Benji trusted him.

On the other hand, Ethan was beginning to dislike Trevor for an entirely different reason. His own petty biases aside, Roswald's comment had made it clear that Trevor had not always acted this way. If, by some microscopic chance, the trigger behind his nasty personality lay in something that was too close for comfort...

For the sake of everyone's welfare, Ethan dearly hoped that Trevor only proved to be a giant, thoughtless asshole.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the slight delay, everyone! I'm still on a work trip that's taking up a lot of my time. Thank you all for your patience as always! <3


	8. please don’t take my sunshine away

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have returned to apologize profusely about my unexpected leave of absence. I mentioned this in a couple of comments in previous chapters, but I got called away on a work trip in a very last-minute fashion. To make an extremely long story short, I came out with a broken collarbone and a messed up thumb, and there was legal action involved. Because of that, the past few months have been an absolute bloody nightmare for me and quite frankly, I had zero time and desire to do anything else (just in time for the holidays, fantastic). Thankfully, everything has now been resolved and it’s a happy ending for most parties involved, including me. It’s safe to say I am more than excited to be moving on from this incident and put it all behind me. Once again, I am so sorry for leaving you all hanging. I’m a bit rusty from the abrupt hiatus, but I’ll do my best to write and edit the next chapters at a reasonable pace. A million thanks to all of you, for supporting this story. <3

The coordinates found in Alanna’s phone led him to a desolate pit in the ground where the skeletons of an abandoned construction project stood rusted and crumbling.

His third scout up and down the vicinity yielded nothing extraordinary. There were no snipers lying in wait. He wasn’t snuck up on, tranquilized, and thrown into the back of an armored van with the weight of a gun barrel pressed to his throat.

He imagined the armored truck veering off towards the water, tyres carving twin scars into the ground before rolling into submersion. Off the road, no rogue tracks could be found. In the distance, the pebbles along the Thames riverbank was visible as a thin, grey stretch.

The impromptu news of Lane’s disappearance had arrived with little to no information, but the signal had blacked out here for a reason—or at least, that’s what he had thought. As had the White Widow herself, evidently. The unconcealed surprise in her tone was evident when he called to inform her of his findings, or lack thereof.

_"I... had surmised they were after something."_

"Like what?" he had asked.

 _"You, of course,"_ answered the White Widow. _"And by sending you, I believed it would draw them out."_

Straddling Roswald’s Yamaha, Ethan stared at the patches of yellowing grass.

The plan was to make quick work of whatever trap had been set for him upon his arrival and personally deliver Alanna’s package to the MI6. With the Syndicate’s legacy reduced to nothing more than scraps of paper ashes, Ethan knew that the followers of Lane’s fear-mongering delusion no longer had the structural foundation on which their unification could thrive upon. Any movement on their part would be sluggish, uncoordinated, and easily thwarted by someone of his caliber. With that being said, how was he to dismantle any ill-conceived attempt at resurgence when there was none to begin with?

There was a concept: perhaps the White Widow was lying. The notion had circled his brain like carrion crows throughout the entirety of his ride out to where he stood now. However, no matter how persistent it may have been, it couldn’t beat the overwhelming presence of the other terrible thought— _what if he_ was _running loose?—_ continuing to ooze and fester at the forefront of his mind. Even the smallest imperfection left neglected on an astronaut's suit could lead to disastrous outcomes. Ethan wasn't about to let chance take the reigns over this one. 

Any thoughts of returning by the end of the day were beginning to look like a childish fantasy.

From his knapsack, Ethan pulled out his old phone. The moment he powered it back on, it began buzzing furiously with dozens of text messages from Benji’s number.

13:02  
Found crack in multi-layer  
encryption on Brandt’s device.  
With the right tools, might be  
able to get thru. 

13:27  
Trevor has some gadgets.  
I’ll try him soon, couple days  
maybe.

13:29  
Assuming you’ll be gone till  
atleast then.

13:32  
I wish I could do more.  
Stay safe.

15:18  
Your face is on telly. They’re  
calling you ‘highly dangerous’  
What is going on?

15:19  
You’re wanted for arson and  
assault but they’ve also found  
‘records of illegal trade’ under  
your name. What you  
mentioned before you left?

15:37  
Where are you??

15:40  
Tell me you’re looking into this  
right now and not jumping out  
of buildings or whatever

15:49  
Please be safe.

At some point, Benji had sent a photo attachment. It was a picture of the television in Benji’s apartment. The mugshot from his time at the Moscow prison lit up the screen, grim and resolute.

There was little to no doubt when determining who was behind it all. Still, it made little sense. Desperation often propelled men towards extremities of all sorts; despite that, Lane’s time was limited and his resources stretched thin. With his most recent failure to burn down Ethan's world, it was hard to believe that Lane would waste them both by throwing Ethan’s name out under such petty charges. On the other hand, it would partly explain the cold shoulder they’d been receiving from the CIA. Whether Sloane truly believed it or not mattered little. If Ethan had to guess, Brandt and Luther were already caught in the cross-fire for being the most convenient targets they were, geographically speaking.

He could surrender willingly, allow himself to be taken under Sloane’s roof, and correct the rumors from within. Defences could be produced easily by Benji, Roswald... and as much as he hated to admit, even Trevor. Certain things about the man still didn't sit well with him yet, but Lane's disappearance was the more pressing issue at hand, and it meant that he'd have to set his animosities aside, whether they stemmed from personal or work-related bias.

Another problem lay in the fact that he remained utterly clueless on what sort of false leads the CIA had on him. The Walker incident had damaged their morale and shaken the previously infallible image of their constitutional integrity. Taking chances were no longer a part of Sloane’s professional repertoire either, and the likelihood of her willing to listen to whatever he had to say was slim at best.

Finding Lane was of paramount importance. Subsequently, any suspicion the CIA might be harboring against him and the IMF would be cleared.

He snapped a few photos of the location and brought the bike to life again.

~~~

Ethan made frequent stops along the way, checking all the nooks and crannies in which an escaped terrorist might find cozy. When his pocket buzzed, he was crawling out on his knees from an abandoned homeless refuge with daisies carpeting its caved-in roof. It was his personal phone. Brushing the filth from his hands, he took the call with renewed caution.

_“I’m glad you picked up. I was half concerned you’d gone and tossed the poor thing.”_

“How did you get this number?” Ethan asked, knowing it was a futile question. Precisely why he did not expect to get such a straightforward answer, nor the details that followed immediately after.

_“Your CIA admirers are rather... disappointed, shall I say? All I had to do was ask. Our encounter was brief, but Madam Sloane has made very clear her interests in your whereabouts."_

"And as your employer, I assume she knows now."

 _"Don’t worry about that,"_ said Alanna. _"This call is also secure, but not for long. Have you reached the extraction site yet?”_

“No,” Ethan answered, trying to piece together what was happening now. “Not yet. I'm about to leave."

_“Plans have been changed. Going to Dartford will no longer help. Do not go there under any circumstances, Mister Hunt. Where is your technician?”_

“Who—Benji?” Ethan said, alarmed. “He’s back home, I—“

_“For now, your safest bet will be to regroup with him. Stay out of sight; do not show your face in public until I say so.”_

“And why is that? You’re the one who sent me out here!"

_“I’m afraid there’s no time. In about seven seconds, this call will become transparent to anyone from the CIA who tries to listen. I’ve done everything to warn you, Hunt. I’m sorry it has to be this way. For now, you must hide.”_

Not even a full second after the White Widow spoke her last syllable, two resounding beeps trilled out of the speaker. And then, the line was dead. 

Ethan stared at the blinking timer on the screen, wet and dumbfounded. Out of all the cryptic warnings he’d received over the years, it wasn’t the worst. There were smatterings of cues throughout that short spiel that he could use to extrapolate various things. If Sloane had been ignoring him, she definitely wasn’t anymore. The extraction site in Dartford was now compromised, and there were forces searching for him that the White Widow had decided it best for him to avoid. 

But if that force was the CIA, why would she think his life was in danger? Sloane wouldn't dare kill him, at least not yet. 

His finger hovered over the first number of Benji's mobile. If these calls were being monitored, then surely anything he said would reach Sloane one way or another. Well, let her eavesdrop to her heart's content, for he wasn't about to admit to crimes he didn't commit. 

He didn't know how far Lane's influences stretched this time around, but one thing was clear: going after two IMF agents was an expensive move and Lane was a figurative vagabond in terms of what he could afford. It was a relief to know that out of the two of them, Lane's real item of desire was Ethan. Lucky him, for Ethan would gladly offer himself up at a smashing deal, zero cost involved.

In any case, the less Benji knew, the better; Ethan couldn't have Lane's attention straying away from himself for even a second. But right now, he just had to make sure...

Benji answered on the first ring. _"Please tell me you're alive,"_ he breathed.

"It's me," Ethan assured, trying not to let the tremble in his hands seep into his voice. "Are you okay?"

 _"Christ."_ He sounded tired, but unharmed, which was all that mattered right now. _"Yes, I'm fine. Look, Trevor has a work computer that has everything I need to get past any encryption or whatever bollocks metadata Brandt came up with to hide behind. If everything turns out, we’ll have him by the end of it. Well, I'll try my best."_

“That’s great.” That was, in fact, some of the best news he'd gotten in a while. Relief and excitement should have been the proper response. “I imagine he wasn’t too happy about doing you any favours.”

Benji scoffed. _"Oh, 'course not. Some friend he is."_

“When are you meeting him?”

_“In a couple of days? I dunno, as soon as he stops being so jumpy about it. It’s like he’s afraid I’ll stumble across his secret pornography file or something. What a bugger, always has been."_

Ethan’s throat decided to close uncomfortably with the taste of something bitter. Was it jealousy, or something else? “How did you convince him, anyway?”

_“What, letting me borrow that monster of his? Quite easy, actually. I mean, it’s gonna cost me a beer or twelve, but at least he’s finally shut up about all that.”_

Ethan cursed, his heart sinking further. “Benji, I’m sorry.”

_“Oh, as if a bit of shitty booze is comparable to getting shot at by strangers on the road.”_

"I'm not getting shot at," Ethan protested, omitting the part about how he'd been almost disappointed by the fact. He looked around his deserted surroundings once more.

_"Speaking of uncertain variables, what's that stuff on the telly about? It’s all very terrible. You should've seen some of the photographs—buildings, just obliterated. They've even got witnesses."_

"...I don't know." He loathed how easy it was to lie, even to Benji Dunn. "People can say anything if they've been paid or threatened. I'm on my way to look into it. Are you still home?"

_“Sure, why?”_

“Do me a favor and just... don't meet with Trevor before I get back.” Ethan slowly got to his feet and trudged back to the bike. “Order in if you have to, but stay low. Don't go outside.”

_“But why? We need to talk to them! Where the hell are you, anyway?”_

“I know. These are just precautions but I want to be safe. I'll figure it out," Ethan continued steadily. "Everything will be cleared up in no time, I swear."

_"But just say—"_

"Do you trust me?"

The answer came without a moment's hesitation. _"Of course."_

"I'm not going to let anything happen to you." That much was the undivided truth. "It's going to be okay."

 _"...Yes.”_ A sharp intake of breath. _“Ethan, I need you to know that I—"_ A pause that was too long, too silent for his panicked heart to handle. _"God! It's so stupid; you've been gone for less than a day and you've done this far longer than I have, but my thoughts wander and I can't help it and I can't sit tight for one bloody minute—”_

"Hey, hey," Ethan interrupted. "Slow down. It's going to be okay."

 _"Right—eugh, sorry. I'm all right. I just miss you a lot."_ The last words seemed to tumble out of Benji's mouth like a train wreck, but they were clearer than crystal to Ethan's ears.

"Benji." His throat tightened again, but with something much more familiar. "I miss you too, very much." _So much,_ he thought, _and so much more than that._

_“Promise me that you'll look after yourself."_

"Always." _I wish I could tell you three simple words, but there's no way you'll ever say them back._ "Remember, don't leave your apartment. But if you do manage to get hold of Will somehow... can you put me through?"

 _"Right away. I'll see you soon."_ It was a question, but not spoken as one, as if he was afraid of the answer he might get.

"See you soon," Ethan promised. He reluctantly ended the call. Despite Alanna’s warning, there was still one more place left for him to visit. 

~~~

When he slowed to a halt before his destination, it was growing dark. 

Before him stretched a large warehouse in all its bleak-faced glory. Through the poor glow of ill-maintained LEDs, he discerned the logo of an aircraft painting facility. Across the massive parking space, not a single personal vehicle could be seen. Rows of forklifts sat untouched along the fence adjacent to a small, portable office building. The tip of a tower crane was just visible over the peak of the building on the other side.

There were two emergency exits on each side of the building, all locked from the inside. Added with the size of the aircraft gates, which were also shut tight, a stealthy maneuver into the facility was out of the question. He settled in front of one of the more manageable-sized doors and fired two clean rounds at the metal lock. The sound echoed for miles, and the door swung open in defeat.

A few emergency lights that were on the brink of death did little to illuminate the entire place, but there was enough to show him the way. Holding his aim directly within line of sight, Ethan ducked onto a grill platform that overlooked two Cessna’s and an incredibly derelict 1960 Champion 7GCB with one of its floats missing. The stale, astringent smell of old paint hung in the air. 

With each stride, his boots connected far too loudly with the grease-stained panels— _ka-thunk, ka-thunk._ Over the droning hum of the ventilation, Ethan strained to hear any signs of life.

He managed to count his steps to six when the flurry of gunshots crackled through the oppressive silence. Bullets ricocheted off the metal railings; angry sparks erupted before his feet and singed his clothes. One sliced past the side of his head—blood erupted from the gash like a hot fountain. Cursing, Ethan blindly launched himself off the platform and onto the Champion’s left wing. The spray of bullets followed him messily as he went tumbling off the small aircraft. His ribs, which were still tender from before, screamed in agony when they took the brunt of the fall. Keeping flat, Ethan crawled behind the remaining float, choking and gagging.

There were voices now, yelling. About three hostiles were stationed in the western ceiling rafts—not as many as he’d feared, but still more than what his own ammunition could handle. It didn’t take long for the shooters to begin their descent via rope. His face was drenched and dripping with blood. Flaming pain erupted in his chest with every drawn gasp, but he ignored it all. He steadied his hands on the float and took aim, listening hard to their feet hitting the ground. One, two, thr—

_Bang-bang-bang!_

Bodies toppled to the concrete floor before he could even think of pulling his trigger. Dumbfounded, Ethan looked around wildly for the sniper. Someone was dropping from the blades of one of the massive ceiling fans. Their face was swathed in brown cloth, the same color as the warehouse walls. Ethan hastily dragged his weapon towards the stranger, but then they raised a pistol out of nowhere and fired. The gun was immediately blasted out of his grasp and skittered off somewhere, out of reach. Ethan shouted in surprise, vaguely aware his finger was dislocated from the force with which he had been disarmed.

The stranger pounced on him like a lithe tiger, thighs locking his arms immobile. They reached up to pull down the mask and shades that concealed their face and—

“Oh, my God! _Ethan?”_

“We really gotta stop meeting like this,” Ethan wheezed, grateful to breathe as soon as the weight lifted from his body. Holding his dislocated finger, he jerked it back into place with an audible 'pop'. He gratefully pressed the offered face cloth against the throbbing flesh wound on his temple, which stretched far beyond his hairline.

Ilsa Faust collapsed next to him and closed her eyes, releasing a stream of expletives that would’ve made a sailor weep. “All that blood in the dark... I couldn’t see... of course, it's Ethan bloody Hunt. Why on Earth did I think—”

“Think what?” Ethan groaned, mopping his face with the cloth before unbuckling his knapsack. “Who’d you think I was?”

“Nevermind that. Are you all right?"

"I'm fine." His eyes were stinging as he clawed through his bag for the field-grade medical kit "Shit."

"My sentiments exactly," Ilsa said dryly. "I thought you were supposed to be hospitalized.”

“Yeah, well.” He finally snatched the kit out of the bag. “Plans change.” Beside him, Ilsa rolled her eyes and he didn’t need night vision to know it.

“You have been debriefed, then.”

“On what?” Pulling the pre-threaded needle out of the tiny slot with his only good hand, he began messily suturing the gash in his temple. “By whom? Because there’s a lot of stuff going on that could use a good debriefing right now.”

“Why else would we have crossed paths again?” she asked. “You’re here for Lane as well.” 

"God, Ilsa." The needle hit a snag when he reached his hairline and he tugged at it frustratingly to no avail. “I think it’s high time,” he grit out, “that the idiots ordering you around finally realize how dangerous that man really is." 

"Of course they understand," Ilsa said fiercely. “Every day he lives and breathes is a reminder to my government that he was born out of our own. They won’t rest until Lane receives punishment from the very people he sought to betray—”

“I think he betrayed everyone when he tried to blow up a third of the world’s water supply.”

“He's a weapon, Ethan. There are safety precautions when handling dangerous weapons.”

"And you're their safety precaution," Ethan concluded angrily. "No, to them you're an expendable pawn they can use to bait Lane behind the safety of their desks and chairs."

"I've spent far too long within close quarters of Solomon Lane. I've seen the atrocities he's committed. I know the risks just as well as you, perhaps more."

"That's exactly my point! You need to stop putting your life needlessly on the line like this. They're using you, Ilsa. There are times when it's best to call it quits— _how_ can you be content with what they're making you do?"

"Because I am the only one in that insufferable agency who's capable of dealing with him," Ilsa hissed. "How happy do you think they are, having to bet everything on someone like me? They don't have a choice, Ethan! I can't believe I have to spell it out for you, considering all the times you and the CIA have been tied together in similar predicaments."

"The CIA? Sure, but you'd think after everything that happened in Kashmir, they'd start trusting me a little. Reinstatement, my ass." His laugh was acerbic and devoid of any mirth. " I'm not here because I was ordered to." _Should you choose to accept it,_ whispered the White Widow’s voice in his head. "I'm here because things have gone to Hell and I need to fix it."

Ilsa slapped his fingers away from the wound, picking up the needle to fix the haphazard mess that was his stitching job. “You fool,” she said, exasperated, pulling the thread through with more force than necessary. “Lane belongs to the MI6 now; he is not your problem anymore. Why are you still so adamant on going after him?”

Ethan closed his eyes and tried to catch his breath while she worked on him. The weariness quickly sank into muscle and sinew, scraping at bones and reverberating in his skull. “I should have killed him.” The nerves in his finger still wept imploringly for anesthetic. “Instead of turning him over, thinking of what’s right or wrong... I should have just put a bullet in his head. Why didn’t I do it?”

“Because that is not who you are.” Ilsa spoke gently, with confidence. “Look at me.” Ethan turned to see her studying him, knotting off the last suture and breaking the thread. She brushed wet strands of hair out of his eyes. “Are you all right?”

"I spent days rotting away in some tiny condo in London,” he began. “All of our equipment is locked up, and I can’t reach Will and Luther anymore. Then... I found out my name and money were used to smuggle Lane out of custody. Now I'm getting labelled as a public menace on TV." The adrenaline was wearing off, leaving nothing but exhaustion in its wake. "You say this isn’t my problem anymore, but it still is. It always will be."

Ilsa's steady hand began applying antiseptic wipes over the fresh stitching, making him wince. “Oh, my. It wasn’t really you setting those homes on fire?” she asked, mock-surprised. “Some of those buildings are relics, you know. Ancient.”

It was Ethan’s turn to roll his eyes. “Courtesy of Lane.”

"But why?" Her astute gaze never left him, looking for answers Ethan could only dream of having. “I don't think anybody who matters believed any of it for a second. It’s too convenient. _Amateur._ Why waste time on setting up something so meaningless?”

They'd come upon the very roadblock Ethan failed to bypass every time he ran this theory through his head. "Everything started happening when he escaped." A pathetic explanation if it could be called that, but it was all he had. "What else could it be?"

They sat in stony silence for a minute. Then Ilsa nodded to where the three bodies lay growing cold on the concrete floor. “I’ve been waiting in this warehouse since last night, looking for Lane, Apostles, anyone. And then these guys show up. They never noticed I was already here, of course. I wanted to see who they were waiting for; clearly, they were not with you.”

“They must have been Lane’s.”

“No, Ethan. They’re yours.”

He gave her a scandalized look, but Ilsa was not smiling. She rose to her feet and approached the heap of fresh corpses. Ethan watched through the gap under the aircraft as she dug through one jacket pocket. She returned and tossed a badge into his lap. The blood-speckled crest of the Central Intelligence Agency stared up at him. 

“O’Connell, Jamerson. Met him during a NATO assignment in Afghanistan. Up until ten minutes ago, he was the only active agent in the CIA with a prosthetic left foot. I recognized his gait straight away.”

The White Widow had known. Her warning phone call came back to him in a rush. _Do not go there under any circumstances..._ "They tried to kill me,” Ethan said, feeling numb. “Sloane wants me dead?” 

“Perhaps not dead. They would not have missed their mark so grievously,” Ilsa stated. “Besides, you are notoriously difficult to kill—capturing, even more so. 'Severely incapacitate', was the likely objective.”

“So what, she wants to cut off a limb or two, then drag me in for questioning?” _No chances will be taken._ Ethan stared open-mouthed at her. “We killed those men. That’s not going to help my case.”

“I killed those men,” Ilsa corrected. “You played no part in what happened tonight.”

“Sloane wanted to send me on a damn cruise!”

“You should have taken the offer,” Ilsa said grimly. “At least you would've had a solid defence.”

“I do have one,” Ethan argued. “I was with Benji and... a couple friends of his.” Friend: singular, he corrected internally, lip curling at the thought of Trevor. The only increment of comfort came from the knowledge that Roswald had promised to return to Benji’s apartment and keep him company. He could only hope that Roswald’s presence would dampen of rebellion against Ethan’s promise and ensure Benji actually stayed put in his apartment. Perhaps Roswald might even tag along for Trevor’s pub night, so that Benji would have someone there to help keep his wits together. 

Ilsa’s eyes thawed momentarily at the mention of Benji’s name. “How is he?” she inquired softly.

“He’s recovering,” was all Ethan could offer at the moment.

“I'm glad. I never got to ask after...” She trailed off, unwilling to bring the horrific incident back to life with spoken words. Ethan looked away.

“Ilsa." He spoke quietly, imploringly. "I know we've never exactly followed the same agenda. But this is one mistake I cannot, ever, afford to make. Again.”

Her forlorn gaze remained steadily on him. “Can we trust each other to cooperate?”

“If it means we get him. I know how important this is to you, too.”

Ilsa sighed, defeated. “I haven’t got much to offer," she said wearily. "From what I've gathered, there was a virus that overrode Lane’s tracker output. Because of its long-range capabilities, the MI6 believe it was remotely installed, and likely designed to activate once the transport vehicle was geographically exposed.”

“Another one of the Apostles, then?” Ethan asked.

“I can’t say for sure. The source of the virus traces back to a man who has virtually zero ties with Lane and his followers.” Ilsa pulled out a phone and began swiping through photographs of numerous faces. “It’s probably a false trail to throw us off, purposely leading us to a random civilian with some technical knowledge.” She stopped at one, and flipped the screen towards him. 

Ethan had no drink to choke on, so he had to make do with his own saliva. "No. God, _no—"_

“What?" she demanded. "What is it?"

He leapt to his feet instead of answering, only to topple over immediately when his vision swam in triples. He collapsed heavily against the aircraft, narrowly missing a nose-dive towards the concrete floor. "What's happening?"

"Stop jumping around!" Ilsa exclaimed, grabbing his arm to steady his gait. "You've lost some blood and that was a nasty fall you took back there."

"I need to go," he groaned. "I need to go."

"Ethan, for God's sake!" Despite having her arms full with his weight, she still managed to shove the mobile in his face again. "Do you know him?"

"Yes." Spots danced in his peripherals and the sudden brightness made his skull ache, but nothing could have blinded him from Trevor's ugly visage marring Ilsa's phone screen. "Benji... I have to go back to Benji..."

"I think you might have a concussion," Ilsa said fiercely. "On top of that, you shouldn't even be out of the hospital yet."

"He's in danger!" Ethan shouted, fighting to no avail against her vice-like grip. "He doesn't know—"

"What use will you be to Benji if you're brain-dead, Hunt? Stop this right now!" 

Ethan stopped flailing, breathing harshly through his nostrils. His blood was searing, and his emotions were a tempest of rage and terror.

"How do you know this man?" Ilsa asked once he appeared to collect himself, if only in increments.

"He's Benji's friend from university," Ethan growled. "He's a software engineer, or so he claims to be. How long as he been Lane's... _Jesus,_ Ilsa, he's meeting Benji at a pub! We have to get back, now!"

"No, we can't!" Ilsa cried. "I don't know what they're planning, but the CIA are clearly hunting you down. They'll be waiting for you the moment you set foot anywhere near London."

"Sloane has eyes everywhere, it'll be the same no matter where I go!" Ethan pictured Trevor smashing a beer bottle over Benji's head, dragging him into the back of a filthy vehicle, his vile hands knotting ropes around Benji's... He shut his eyes tightly, gut roiling with nausea.

"It won't be the same," Ilsa stated calmly, tightening her hold around his arm for emphasis. "For now, you need to stay low. Just for a while, until they've all calmed down a little—"

"What good will hiding do?" Ethan snapped. "I can't achieve anything if I keep running away like you!"

The regret was instantaneous, even before the words fully left his mouth. It was clear Ilsa was exercising an immeasurable load of self control by not slapping him within an inch of his life. Her eyes were alight with justified fury. "What the hell is wrong with you, Ethan Hunt?"

"I'm sorry. I didn't..." His knees were sapped of their last strength and he sank to the ground. As the throes of mindless panic ebbed away, Ethan felt emptier than ever. He violently wound his fingers through his hair, skin pulling around the sutures Ilsa had painstakingly woven. "I'm so sorry."

Seconds trickled into what felt like ages before he felt the touch on his shoulder. When he dared to look up, he saw Ilsa kneeling before him. Worry and stress had creased the corners of her mouth, the space between her brows. She looked at him with a sadness that stemmed from things far beyond Ethan's impetuous outburst. His self-loathing burned with tenfold strength, despising the way he'd catalyzed such pain upon the woman who'd become one of the few, truest friends he'd ever known.

"You must stay strong," she murmured. "If not for me, or yourself, then for _him."_

"...Ilsa—"

"He means the world to you." It was no doubtful questioning. They were simple facts, and were stated as such. Like Julia, Ilsa did not sound surprised nor taken aback by this revelation. Ethan managed a stiff nod, once. Fear still held him back, as if Benji would perish the moment his thoughts leaked out into the world.

"He is a very capable agent," she said gently. "He is skilled, resilient, and very brave."

"Yes." Ethan was grateful for the hand that remained on his shoulder, grounding him.

"It will be okay."

Ethan swallowed thickly. "Ilsa, I never meant—"

"I know." Her lips quirked into the smallest of smiles. "Everybody knows Ethan Hunt to be a little bit bullheaded, a little bit of an arse. Both are true"—she grinned when he snorted—"but I also know that you love more deeply than anyone else."

"I want him to be happy," Ethan whispered, "and safe. But it's always too much to ask for."

Ilsa made no move to disagree, for she knew it was true. She squeezed his shoulder in one final reassurance before helping him stand. "Let's go to Basildon," she said with forced cheer. "There's an old safe-house there. It's been out of commission for several years, but it should still be functional. We can figure out a safe way to contact Benji after."

"...All right. How do we get there?"

She peeked over her shoulder to where the silhouettes of each aircraft hung above them. "You can fly one of these things, can't you?" she asked, somewhat sheepishly.

Ethan gaped. "They're not exactly the most inconspicuous modes of transport, Ilsa."

"...yes, of course I know—"

"I've borrowed a motorbike," he suggested instead.

"Will do," Ilsa said quickly, "but I'm driving."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again for everyone's wonderful patience and support!


	9. in all my dreams, dear, you seem to leave me

_Ethan’s condo had many east-facing windows. In the mornings, the sunlight’s trajectory fell directly along the length of his couch, thin curtain sheets diminishing the rays before they warmed his skin._

_His face was already tucked into the crook of his elbow, safely out of light. One of the many perks of being a natural side sleeper. Camping out in the lounge was also a common occurrence. The laptop lay open on the coffee table. Whatever he had been working on last night, evidently, could wait._

_From somewhere between his arms and the entangled fleece throw, Benji yawned. A leg came around to hook around his shin. Ethan smiled, only half-awake._

_“Got work today?” Benji mumbled._

_“No,” Ethan replied sleepily. He wondered how this man wasn’t suffocating, flattened up against Ethan’s jumper the way he was. He wriggled down until they were almost eye-level. “Not anymore.” Pressing his lips to the top of Benji’s brow felt like second nature, like they belonged there. It was a perfect start to a perfect Sunday._

_The weight of a hand settled on his waist, then receded until only the fingertips remained. They traced invisible lines into his flesh, sweeping upwards beneath his shirt._

_“You are my everything,” Ethan whispered, but his words were picked up by a fantastical wind and carried beyond their ears. The fingers had paused in their ascent, circling over one of Ethan’s many scars that had withstood the test of time._

_His mouth found the crown of Benji’s head again. Ethan could taste Benji's sadness as he continued to trace the edges of an old encounter, where muscle and sinew had been cleaved off by a foe whose name no longer came to mind._

_“Ethan.”_

_Just as quickly as it arrived, the sorrow lifted from their little sofa cocoon and Benji was holding him back like his life depended on it. He drew in until he was close enough to trail small, butterfly kisses down the length of Ethan’s neck._

_“Ethan!”_

_His breath stuttered, never wanting this to end. The sudden shift of weight made him open his eyes. From above, Benji’s lopsided grin filled Ethan’s sight, framed by the glow of sunlight and new beginnings._

“Ethan!”

He bolted upright in a panic, sucking in lungfuls of air like a drowning man. Remnants of what felt like a very long dream were swept away. A sharp prickle on his arm kicked the rest of his muddled senses into drive. Blood was welling from where an IV needle had been forcefully ripped out of its vein.

A woman’s face suddenly materialized into his sharpening vision; Julia—no, Ilsa. Her hair was falling out of a braid and her clothes smelled like she’d walked straight out of a bonfire. “Look at me,” she commanded, and immediately delivered skull-splitting pain into his eyes in the form of a tiny LED flashlight. “Good. We're moving soon, get ready.” A bundle of clothes were shoved into his hands. He’d been sweating profusely and his shirt was plastered to his back like a second skin, which he gladly peeled off.

“What happened?” Ethan's voice was like steel pipes grinding on concrete. A flask of water materialized before his mouth and he downed it in a single breath, as if afraid it’ll vanish any second.

“Lane's already put together a group, it seems.” Ilsa hovered to make sure he didn’t slip off the mattress. “Some are out and about as we speak.”

As soon as his feet hit the ground, it took every ounce of Ethan's willpower to refrain from emptying his gastric inventory all over Ilsa's boots. "That's good, then." He crossed the tight space towards the briefing monitor, built into a cupboard that stood wide ajar. “That makes it easier to track him down. No, thank you.” He waved away the empty disposal bin that Ilsa hovered beneath his chin.

“How exactly do you plan on doing so? By following them?” Ilsa asked, crossly. “Because I just came back from one such attempt. Unless you want to be lured into exploding petrol stations, I’d advise against it.”

“Lane doesn't want me dead.” A map stared back, numbers along the edge calculating trajectories he didn’t understand. He cycled through breathing routines that came from his training days. The queasiness was ebbing fast, and he was grateful for it. “Not yet. I'll let him take me, and then I'll know where he is.”

All he got for that was a sigh of frustration that was quickly becoming Ilsa’s trademark response to any sort of plan he devised. “In any case, we have to go. They’re on their way.”

“Who? The Apostles?” A firearm was held out to him, the same one that lived on his belt. Out of habit, Ethan pulled the slide, but this time found himself staring down an empty chamber.

“The CIA.” She pointed her chin at the set of keys that sat on a table. “Are you well enough to drive?”

“Yes, but I don’t understand."

“There is an active manhunt out there for you, Ethan. Sloane or Lane—who do you think will get to you first? I know luck has always been your go-to strategy, but not this time. They’re stopping at nothing to bring you in.”

The White Widow’s insurance involving Lane’s successful delivery was never detailed in full, but he still wondered just how long she could have continued pretending her end of the contractual obligation wasn’t broken. “What if I told them?” He had no chips left of his own, and all he could do was offer up that of others. “What if I told them about how he's escaped again?”

“It's possible that they already know," Ilsa said grimly. "But it may not even matter in the end. You or Lane... I don't think there's much of a difference to them anymore.” 

“...What the hell’s _that_ supposed to mean?”

“Because of the latest attack in London.” She marched over and minimized the map, bringing up a news clip which Ethan noted was not live, but a recording. "Likely the worst out of them all."

“No...” The pixels displayed a cornucopia of flames, dust and concrete right where an apartment complex used to stand. Nearby structures had collapsed alongside it and the scorch marks stretched across multiple blocks. “No, no, no, no..." Fear proliferated into panic like a disease, debilitating and poisonous. "How long was I...”

“Five days,” came Ilsa’s bone-shattering reply. Ethan rounded on her, outraged. 

_“Excuse me?”_

Ilsa stood her ground, impassive. “You still hadn’t recovered from Kashmir, and on top of that you were showing signs of mild concussion. Bed rest was more important than anything."

"No. _No,_ that's ridiculous. Twenty-four hours would have been more than enough!"

"I had to give you fluids intravenously so that you wouldn’t dehydrate—"

"You mean to tell me you wasted five whole days because you were worried about a—a concussion? Bull _shit!"_

Smouldering rocks, and ashes brittle in the wind. Steel pipes and shattered beams protruding from the scene like spear-lined parapets. The nausea returned with a vengeance and Ethan doubled over the bin, hand clamped over his mouth.

"All right." Ilsa raised her palms like she was calming a rabid animal. "I mixed in a... a very mild sedative. Very, _very_ mild, Ethan; it was only supposed to last about forty-eight hours. But you didn't wake, and I thought you could use the rest—"

"Don't. Just don't." Ethan's teeth creaked from the force with which he clenched them with. He wouldn't sick up now, not here. "Come on, Ilsa. It's always been like this, hasn't it?" And there was nothing he could do to despise her for it; how could he, when this was the pattern in which their lives would forever be entwined?

A muscle was jumping in Ilsa's jaw. Her expression was inscrutable as always, cement-like and unyielding even with adrenaline flushing her cheeks. Ethan straightened himself, clutching the walls for support. "What was it this time? New orders? New perspective?"

"Director Sloane and her team," she bit out. "They've been tipped off. How and by whom, I've no idea. But they think you've really turned now, and are working with Lane."

He'd have cared, once upon a time, but dawning was a new era in which Ethan could no longer give a rat's ass about what Sloane thought. The bile continued rising, however, and it was now from what passed between the two of them, right in this moment. When he met Ilsa's eyes, he knew.

Ethan nodded. "Safety precautions." He ran his tongue across his teeth in an effort to get rid of the foul taste. "I understand." He kept nodding. "I understand."

"I had no choice." Ilsa blinked twice in rapid succession, a single crack in her infallible stoicism. "I couldn't take any—"

"Chances, I get it." Another water flask was balanced on the medicine cabinet near his elbow. He picked it up, but it was empty. "I really do."

"Ethan..." 

Ilsa was never one to waste her breath with white lies. Her attempts at doing so just now were well-intended, surely, but her methods were obsolete. He'd always been at the receiving end of Ilsa's mistrust to some degree, but this time it was different. If a picture was worth a thousand words, the mere hesitation in her breath painted a whole new encyclopedia of implications he didn't dare entertain. 

His lips pinched into a smile, but all he ended up doing was sneering in her face. "Do you really think that?" He jerked his head towards the screen, brow ascending for emphasis. "That I did all this?"

Her head swiveled to the flashing images, where plumes of black smoke rose into the colorless, afternoon sky. "I don't doubt you." She spoke slowly, deliberately.

"You unloaded my gun, and sedated me." The cramped space was quickly becoming unbearably claustrophobic.

"I didn't know what to think," she murmured. It was as if the past five minutes had aged her ten years. "At the time, I just... needed to be sure."

"Sure of what? That I didn't get in the way? That I didn't suddenly turn around and point this at your back?" He tossed the empty gun carelessly, and it went clattering across the tabletop. "That I didn't do anything to hurt _Benji?"_

 _But you did._ The baleful voice was back, lest he forget its presence deeply rooted between every crevice of his tormented thoughts. _You knew something bad would happen. But you didn't do anything, did you? You didn't care if he got hurt._

"They'd finished recovering the camera footage from the first couple attacks. You were already sleeping when I saw them, and I didn't... I couldn't believe—"

“That,” Ethan roared, stabbing a finger at the drone’s sweeping footage of charred rubble, “is where Benji lives!”

The explosion of sound obliterated the remainder of Ilsa's confession. She froze in her tracks, wide-eyed and open-mouthed.

“I was"—He slammed a fist into his chest, then again because it hadn’t hurt enough the first time _—“I_ was the one who told him to stay in his house; I told him not to leave... I said—" _Because you're stupid, mindless, greedy..._

“Ethan!" Ilsa cried, breaking out of her shell shocked stance. "Ethan, don't. He's alive." Her vice-like grip had returned, this time over his clenched fist to halt his self-destructive outburst.

 _He's alive._ Ethan couldn't look away from her, eyes following her mouth and trying to sear the words into his very flesh. _He's alive._ "Are you absolutely positive—"

 _“Yes._ He was very lucky, one of the few dozen who walked out of there."

"Thank God... oh, thank God..."

"But... I don't understand." To fully describe the complexity of emotions Ilsa was currently expressing would have been an impossible feat. "Didn't Benji tell you?"

Still half-drowning in the deluge of relief and residual terror, he could only snort in hysteric laughter. "I was knocked out for five days! How could he have possibly reached me?"

Ilsa's eyes jumped to the monitor and back. "Ethan, this was five days ago. I thought you knew already."

"What?"

Barely thirty seconds in passing and already back to square one. It wasn't even a matter of doubting what she said; he'd heard her loud and clear. Like a man trapped under seventy thousand gallons of pressurized water, Ethan couldn't move nor breathe.

"They told me about it through my in-ear, barely a half-hour before we bumped into each other," Ilsa continued. He didn't know what kind of expression he was making, but with every second she spent staring at it, her own face grew more and more strained. "I assumed you'd have kept in touch. Weren't you both staying in London together?"

"I was scouting places. Looking for Lane." Every word he spoke was like spitting glass. "I called him... it was late noon, I don't—I don't remember. He was fine, he texted me—he sent a picture of his TV, Ilsa, he was just _fine—"_

"The actual explosion was shortly before dusk," Ilsa cut in before his tirade spun out of control. "His transmission was received by my operatives, on the shared emergency communications frequency between the MI6 and the CIA."

Mere hours after Ethan ended their call, Benji had miraculously escaped a near-death experience. The demolition of one complex had set off a disastrous chain of events as gas lines were hit and electrical wires were severed. According to the scrolling text of what had been a live report, the casualties were numbered over two hundred and counting.

It had been five days. Benji had taken the time to notify both American and British agencies of his vital status. So why were Ethan's own call and message logs distressingly empty?

_Jesus. Take a look at yourself. Who cares if he hadn't called? You're the one who ran off without telling him the full story. Shouldn't you just be glad that he's safe?_

"Safe," Ethan repeated out loud. "Please tell me he's somewhere safe."

"Of course, he's been staying in East Sussex ever since."

"We're going right now." He snatched the keys off the table and rattled them pointedly. "Where's the car? No, before that; do you still report back to your operatives?"

"Yes, but Ethan—"

"I think I know who blew up Benji's apartment." A memory of Trevor's filthy scowl flashed across his mind. "The man you showed me in the warehouse. Get someone to track him down immediately. That sonofabitch, I can’t believe he looked me straight in the eyes—”

 _"No,_ we’ll worry about this Trevor person later. Yesterday, they finished tracing the virus that overrode Lane's tracker. There were digital footprints dating back three years ago to a booth computer installed at the Vienna State Opera. Do you understand, Ethan? They were there that night. Cross-references of Trevor's location and data activity show that he was in Cairo for an extended period during that time. It can't have been him."

"He's still involved somehow," Ethan insisted. "The guy's a software engineer. Not to mention he showed up at Benji's house almost exactly when everything started to fall apart... he's been away for this long and he just happened to change his mind now? Like hell. I'm not taking chances," he added tightly when Ilsa looked far from convinced. "That, you've got to understand." 

She couldn't argue, and they both knew it. "Of course," she conceded at last. "We can look into it, but later." Another key was produced from the pocket of her jeans. "I'm borrowing your ride."

“That’s not my—wait, where are you going?”

“Same place, different route. With things the way they are, I can’t risk being seen with you.” She held up her phone. “I’ll meet you at this address. Benji is there as well. Once you pick him up, both of you are leaving this country before the lights are out.”

Ethan shook his head vehemently. “Absolutely not. If we leave now, we’ll never get another chance at finding Lane again.”

“For the last time, he is ours,” Ilsa snapped. “Leave Lane to British Intelligence and worry about saving your arse from your own government.” She passed his knapsack over, which had grown hefty in weight and size from dozens of ammunition boxes for his firearm.

The Basildon location was tucked beneath a grassy field. It was built out of an old war bunker, with some modern additions that enhanced the near century old shelter. Behind the wheel of a dusty BMW, Ethan shot out of the underground garage onto the ramp bound to the outside world. In his rear view mirror, Ethan spotted the black dot of Ilsa popping out of the ground half a mile away.

 _Stupid,_ the voice jeered. _Mindless, greedy. But don't go blaming yourself for such predispositions..._

He watched her speed off, then punched the gas in the opposite direction. 

~~~

In the state of Washington, D.C., it rained.

Inside a tiny bathroom with one light bulb radiating three shades warmer than the other, a man sat on his window sill with an old, field grade laptop perched over his knees. The dot on the monitor spun and spun with hypnotic lethargy. 

William Brandt yawned for the third time in forty-one seconds. A new record.

He glanced again at the little clock sitting next to the toothbrush stand. The minute hand had only moved two increments in the past hour or so. The dot continued to chase its own tail with reckless abandon and Brandt softly thumped his head on the glass to its rhythm.

“You there.” Luther had come to stand in the doorway with the most delicious smelling mug of chai. “Still nothing?”

“A couple more minutes.” The small diagnostics window running on the side pinged angrily, which Brandt steadily ignored. “Just give it a couple more minutes.”

“Might I suggest a chair?” Luther said over the sound of Brandt’s spine popping for the umpteenth time.

“Nah.” It was a miracle that they managed to secure a network with enough digital landmines to stall the average, nosy State Department. Connection reliability, however, was an entirely different problem altogether. “If I hold it up at about... a fifty degree angle to the shower caddy then it’s a little better.”

“You’re wasting your time and energy,” Luther scolded. “We should have left last night.”

“And I said I’m not leaving,” Brandt said firmly. “Not before this. It’s almost done, I can feel it. I think.”

“You keep saying that and it’s been days,” Luther said, exasperated. "I told you; once those microchips are finished rendering," he nodded to the bathroom door, which presumably led to another room where his own computer sat chugging away, "we're hauling ass, pronto." 

“Come on, I didn't say I was a prophet. Man, I am so damn close. I promise we'll get back on schedule once I get something.”

Luther rolled his eyes, but there was no witness to his misery. He left, finished his tea, and stared at the pages of a book which he could not absorb. When he returned, Brandt had not moved from his sad little hunch.

“Are you going to tell me what this is about, or are you going to sit there for the rest of your life?”

With no immediate response, Luther was about to give up and slam the door shut behind him, when the gruff voice finally spoke. “Before your plane landed, I ran double, triple sweeps over our equipment. I needed all the cannon fodder I could get to prove that the IMF was still in the game with a fully stocked inventory. All the tech we own is sitting in our depository, right where they should be... except for this, apparently.” He brought up a new window and turned the laptop so that Luther could see the product registry for a single, metallic briefcase. 

_LOW DENSITY POLYETHYLENE AUTO SCULPTOR MKVI_  
_SERIAL_18.07FO_  
_STATUS_ACTIVE_  


“That’s the one we brought to London,” Luther reminded him. “We exposed Walker, thanks to that thing.”

“Yes, and every time it's used, our servers receive encrypted microdata which can then pull up customized algorithms for the three-dimensional image processing. Do you see this?” Brandt held up a napkin in which a series of numbers—coordinates—were etched on by a pink highlighter. “This was the dungeon you camped out at, with Walker and Lane.”

Brandt then raised his left palm so that it remained suspended next to the napkin. “Now this?”

There, in black ink, was another set of numbers that did not match its partner.

“So.” After the prolonged lapse of silence, Luther’s voice rang loud and flat. “Our printers are running loose.”

“Just one,” Brant corrected. “Specifically, the one you had at the safehouse.”

Luther closed his eyes. “My bad. There’s someone out there, running around with only _one_ of our printers. Thank the Lord Almighty.” The sarcasm was so thick one could've drowned in it. Brandt wisely held his tongue, for they were both nearing their wits' end. They already had enough hands clawing for their throats and they didn't need to throw their own into the mix.

He did, however, need to voice what was now heavy on their minds. “It could be anyone. The algorithms can process flat images, so anyone who has a presence on social media... shit, anyone who’s had their face photographed from multiple angles will be enough.”

“What do our servers look like?” Luther asked.

“Any and all data they receive are wiped every fifteen hours.”

“The back-up servers—”

“—are manually wiped every twenty hours.”

“William, I know right now all we gotta do is sneeze and have the entire Federal Department hearing about it, but please tell me you’ve got something to go on.”

Brandt shook his head. “Only the date. And the bandwidth frequency from the proxy they used. That’s why I’m running it through some demographics, to see if we can get a location.”

“Ethan might want to know about this,” Luther said seriously. "We gotta talk to him, either by phone or in person."

“Yeah, even if we could manage a call for about five seconds, it'd be something."

Minutes passed in silence while they sat stewing in their own thoughts. “Who, and _how—”_

“At this point, the second part is irrelevant,” Brandt muttered. “Though, from what you’ve told me about what happened... the black-outs, the shootings? Yeah, I can think of a few opportune moments." He tumbled ungraciously off the sill and stretched, grimacing. “Shit, I’m getting old.”

Luther sighed as Brandt lumbered past him. “Where are you going now?”

“Getting a cushion. My glutes are begging for mercy.”

~~~

The East Sussex safehouse was better maintained than the rotting bunker underneath Basildon’s fields, but only marginally. There was a trend among government secret services in which location anonymity gradually became synonymous to figurative shitholes in the neighborhood. Here was hardly different, poorly lit and smelling of stale mold. It did, however, perform excellently in repelling curious wanderers.

He’d given Ilsa a head start by zigzagging his course, delaying his ETA about two hours before finally circling back down the right way. Ethan parked behind half a dozen portable toilet stalls precariously stacked on top of each other. While a junkyard was far from an upgrade, they wouldn’t stick out like a sore thumb every time they peeked their heads out.

Ethan’s dash towards what remained of a large paper waste facility felt like ten lifetimes per step. He barreled through the door into a vast chamber, where he faced rows upon rows of skids that lined the walls. Stacks of shrink-wrapped papers towered over his head, and the loose bits scuttled along the ground with the breeze drifting through gaping holes in the roof. "Benji!"

There he was, slouched over one of the briefing tables bolted to the ground in a darkened corner. Even from this distance, Benji looked terrible. Black and blue bruises were in full bloom across his pallid face. Small adhesive strips crisscrossed areas where the skin had broken. There was a noticeable stiffness to his movements when he stood from his chair. 

"Oh, Benji." He began limping out of the shadows and Ethan's knees nearly buckled with relief. He was alive, and in one piece. Truly, that was all that mattered in this moment, even with all the things he couldn't say. “Thank God... I was so worried—" 

Benji shouldered right past him, barely sparing a glance his way. Failing to process what just happened, Ethan stood there, frozen mid-sentence.

“Finally.” It was Ilsa, who had appeared from behind with a briefcase. “What took you so long?” She turned to Benji. "Here, I’ve got what you asked for.”

Still dazed from the unexpected greeting (or lack thereof), Ethan couldn’t provide a timely response. He needn’t have worried though, because Benji said, “Christ, at last. You’re a lifesaver, Ilsa, you know that?”

“Happy to help,” Ilsa replied, smiling.

“What is it?” he asked, trying to peer over Benji’s shoulder. But in a strange, coincidental dance, Benji happened to sidestep at just the right moment, blocking Ethan’s path of approach. Flummoxed and slightly hurt, Ethan hung back awkwardly while the other two chuckled and groaned at whatever development they were making with the briefcase.

“We can’t linger for too long,” Ilsa said at one point. “I’ll need to update my location in my log soon. If the CIA are privy to these reports, I don't want them to find out who I'm with.”

“No, I’ll just keep moving. Don't worry about it,” Ethan told her. “They’re going to find me sooner or later. I’ll take the bike.”

“I’ll go find more fuel,” Ilsa offered. “There should be a jerrycan around here somewhere in all this rubbish.” She hurried off, disappearing through the back exit.

With Ilsa gone, there was nothing else to obstruct his conversation with the man in front of him. Ethan's palms were sweating and it was utterly absurd. He couldn't begin to explain why he felt so nervous. Since when had the silence between them grown so uncomfortable?

“Benji." He gave the table a wide berth, circling around into Benji's line of sight. “I saw what happened. I’m so glad you’re all right.” Questions of all sorts fought for dominance and Ethan kept a firm lid on them all. No matter how badly they itched and burned, they were dwarfed by his desire to explain just how much it meant to him that they were standing here, alive and breathing.

Benji continued tinkering with the contents of the briefcase, as if Ethan hadn’t spoken at all. Now closer than ever, he could catalogue the extent of Benji's injuries in finer detail. One of his eyes were outlined by a massive, purpling ring. It would have been impossible for Benji to escape completely unscathed, of course. Nevertheless, it was still peculiar, given that it was from a collapsing building. Ethan had seen that exact formation of bruises in his own mirror once, but only after getting clocked in the face repeatedly by a Croatian arms dealer.

“I missed you," Ethan tried again, gently. “I missed you so much. Every day, I thought only of—”

“Where have you been all this time?” The question cut loud and unceremoniously through whatever heartfelt speech he'd prepared. Eyes that had been avoiding him with expert ease were now drilling trenches into Ethan's forehead.

“Manchester.” He cleared his throat. “I was following Trevor... listen, about that guy. We can't trust him, he’s—"

“Trevor was in London up until very recently,” Benji interrupted. “We went for drinks the night you called. Try again.”

Each sentence delivered a force equivalent to that of a kick in the gut, but Ethan's breath withered away for a different reason. "You—you met with him?" he croaked, leaden tongue and sandpaper throat fracturing his voice in tandem. "Why didn't you tell me?"

“Didn’t feel it was important,” Benji said frigidly. “But I thought you’d understand of course, seeing how much you, of all people, covet the art of withholding information.”

Ethan's feet took a step back on their own. "What are you..."

“Why didn’t you tell me that Lane escaped?”

His stomach dropped with the weight of a thousand plutonium cores. Of course he’d found out—but _how_ —no, none of that mattered right now because something had gone wrong; so, utterly, unequivocally wrong—

“Benji, I don’t know what sort of things... _rumors..._ you might have heard about me, but..." An incredulous chuckle slipped past his lips. "You know they're not true, right? Of course... of course you know... I promise—”

“You promise,” Benji repeated. His tone was flat and uninviting. 

“I'm sorry,” Ethan whispered, breaths falling short in wake of his surging desperation. "I shouldn't have lied. I should have just consulted you, Benji, but it was just too dangerous at the time and I was so worried—I swear I—" 

"You swear, and you promise." Now there was anger coloring Benji's voice, but Ethan couldn't decide if it was better or worse than the robotic apathy from moments before. “Are words really all you've got to offer? Because it's about the only thing I’ve left to count on, and they're getting less and less reliable every bloody time you open your mouth. They've really gone and started talking about you like a proper criminal, did you know that?"

“It's Lane. This is _his_ setup; he knew exactly what he was doing." Less than a week ago, they had woken together on a sunlit sofa. Less than a week had passed since Benji spoke to him with such fondness and endearment. _I miss you so much._ "I couldn't see it before, but I see it now. When I first heard about his escape, I couldn’t dare risk... please, you don’t understand—”

Benji threw his device back in the briefcase, the lid falling back on itself with a startling _crack._ “Oh, sure," he sneered. "Funny little Benji, playing Secret Spy. 'Course I wouldn’t understand, I’m just the _stupid IT guy!”_

He gaped, stung. “That's not—” Cold, clammy dread clawed its way into his tightening chest cavity. “That’s not what I meant. You _know_ that’s not what I meant."

"One call, Ethan! That's all it would have taken for me to help. But no, you just have to do it all by yourself, don't you? You just can't let go of that hero medal, can you?”

"Benji, that's... how could you possibly think..." 

"I'm amazed your spine hasn't collapsed from carrying around that enormous, over-inflated head of yours! How on earth have you managed to lead a team this long if you're so bloody paranoid that they'll steal your thunder all 'round the clock?"

Ethan passed a hand over his eyes, suddenly overcome with an unbelievable urge to cry.

"For Christ's sake, no wonder we're always getting disavowed left, right, and center! It's just all a big, twisted game to you, isn't it? The thrill of the chase, the whole world at risk! 'Not on my watch, Ethan Hunt is here to save the day'!"

"Stop! Stop it, I would never... _never_ in my life have I ever dreamed—"

"Oh, don't strain yourself, it's unbecoming," Benji snarled. His lower lip had split open and was now bleeding freely. Somewhere inside, Ethan's conscience wept at this sight—how Benji's very demeanor was weighed down with exhaustion, whose entire personal belongings were now reduced to fit inside a single hiking backpack that lay forlornly against the table, whose eyes had packed their own bags over the course of his ongoing battles since Kashmir, to London, and now here. "There's a terrorist out there who's now escaped for the second time, and what have _you_ done? How am I supposed to know what sort of things you got up to these past—"

His tirade was cut abruptly by an ear-splitting _crash,_ resonating from the fist that collided into the table with bone-breaking force. 

"You said you trusted me." It was different with Ilsa. Any feelings of mistrust she continued to harbour against him would hurt, but he'd have lived with it. "Why? What changed?" This, on the other hand, was not the same. The room had turned arctic and he felt sick. _Not you, too. Literally everyone else can think what they like. But please, not you too._

"Was it Trevor? Your little night out with him... did he bring up anything strange, something a bit more confidential, perhaps? Did he _say_ things about me?” Ethan spat. “Do my promises mean jack shit to you? Trevor is a filthy, lying animal and you—you take his word over mine?"

"I’m not saying anything until you’ve answered my bloody question!”

“Snap out of it, Benji!" Ethan’s voice was steadily climbing in both octaves and decibels. He stabbed a finger at the ground. "This was what he'd planned for all along! Can’t you see? They’re messing with your head! What did they say? That I've turned against the CIA? That I'm working with Lane? Tell me, goddammit!"

"You—"

Ethan grabbed Benji's arm and pulled him along until they stood directly under a patch of sunlight that spilled through one of the massive gaps in the ceiling. "Ethan," Benji hissed. "Ethan, wait—"

"Look at me!" Amidst the blind panic that was wildly spiraling out of his control, something else was emerging from within: anger. It twisted and warped his fractured heart into something far uglier, contemptuous and blackened with hatred. "Do I look like a criminal to you? Look at my face!"

Benji flinched violently. His arm immediately shot up as if in defence of his face, eyes screwed tight.

The sight hit home, a bullet round piercing his chest. Whatever seeds of fury he'd allowed to grow and flourish inside him were extinguished instantaneously by what his eyes beheld. Only then did Ethan grow aware of his hand that hung between them, raised and outstretched high in an attempt to grab Benji's shoulder.

"Get out."

"I..." Ethan reached out, unthinking, only to freeze when Benji recoiled away. His throat burned as if branded. "I'd... I'd never—" 

“Don’t touch me, Hunt.” Ethan’s surname was spat like cyanide from Benji’s tongue, searing him to the bone. Something inside Ethan's body was contracting so painfully that his belly roiled with nausea, and the sudden onslaught of sensations in his otherwise paralyzed state almost sent him reeling forward. 

"No—Benji, please—"

The rest of his voice was drowned by the roar of steel rattling against steel. Someone was pounding on the door and the noise reverberated throughout the warehouse in a cacophony of distorted echoes. They both startled, but Ethan could barely be bothered to feel annoyed or concerned by the interruption. His whispered pleas seemed to fall on deaf ears as Benji turned and hobbled away from him.

"Please, look at me." The slowly increasing distance between them drove the nail further into the coffin. "I'm so sorry. I'd never doubt you. I'm just" _—so damn paranoid. I think I'm going insane. Please, please don't walk away from me._

"Ilsa must've locked herself out," Benji muttered as the person now began kicking at the door from the outside. He sank back into his chair, ducking his face into bandaged hands.

He'd have expected another stinging verbal onslaught. He'd have even welcomed a punch. Out of all the possible reactions when it came to their relationship, a full-bodied reflex was not among those Ethan had considered an option. _I don't understand._ Hellfire was real and it erupted deep within him, starting with his lungs and quickly engulfing every muscle he used to remain standing. _Please, help me understand._

"Are you getting that or not?"

Breath hitching in his throat, Ethan felt like nothing but a hollow carapace of the man he used to be. He was vaguely aware of his legs carrying him to the door, as if half-possessed. He felt himself twisting the handle, pulling it open...

...and came to stand eye-to-eye with a man whom he'd never met before. Which was true, and yet that didn't stop him from feeling like he was staring into the face of a ghost.

"Hello, Ethan." The man's skeletal grin seemed to split his sallow visage in two. "It's an honour."

The last thing Ethan remembered was the soft whistle of a silenced dart gun and the world flipping over on its axis. The syllables of Benji's name were the last to leave his lips, and he didn't even feel himself hit the ground.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I planned to have Lane in this one. But after many days of agonizing over the overall flow of the story, I belatedly came to realize that, if I had Lane show up now, the narrative would fail to play out exactly the way I wanted. So unfortunately he's being pushed to the chapter right after this. Sorry! Hope you enjoyed this one nonetheless.

**Author's Note:**

> I am new to the MI fandom! Immediately picked up on Ethan and Benji's chemistry. Goodness, those movies are really something else!


End file.
